THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


CX)U 


AMONG    THE    GUERILLAS. 


Edmund  Kirke's  Works. 


All  uniform  with  this  volume,  beautifully  bound  in 
cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 


I.  Among  the  Pines. 

II.  My  Southern  Friends. 

III.  Down  in  Tennessee. 

IV.  Adrift  in  Dixie. 

V.  Among  the  Guerillas. 

VI.  On  the  Border.     (In  press.) 


Edmund  Kirkh  is  a  graphic  wTiter.     His  pages  do  not  fiimish  fiction, 

but  absolute  truth.     Their  stj'le  is  attractive  and  engrossing  :  the 

dialogues  are  captivating  to  the  last  degree.     No  more 

stirring  writer  nibs  a  pen  among  the  literary 

laborers  of  the  day." 


%*  Copies  of  any  of  these  books  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage 
free,  on  receipt  of  the  price, 


BY 


CARLETON,     PUBLISHER, 

NEW  YORK. 


AMONG    THE    GUERILLAS. 


EDMUND    KIRKE, 

AUTHOR    OF    "among   THE    PINES,"    "mY   SOUTHERN    FRIENDS, 
"down    in    TENNESSEE,"     "PATRIOT    BOYS   AND    PRISON 
PICTURES,"   ETC 


NEW  YORK  : 
CARLETON,  Publisher,  413  Broadway, 


M  DCCC  Lxvr. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 

GEORGE    W.     CARLETON, 

I  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


TO 


JAMES,    THE    YOUNGER 


602919 


INTRODUCTION. 

T  T  has  become  the  fashion  of  late  years  to 
^  write  the  lives  of  great  men  for  little  boys. 
I  propose  to  write  the  life  of  a  little  man  for 
great  boys,  —  for  the  million  of  "beardless  sov- 
ereigns "  who  will  wield  a  ballot  for  the  first 
time  at  the  next  general  election  ;  and  for  the 
many  millions  of  bearded  freemen  who  have 
done  that  patriotic  duty  these  many  years,  but 
whose  education  has  not  included  a  thorough 
course  of  instruction  in  regard  to  Southern  men 
and  Southern  institutions,  —  a  knowledge  that 
just  now  seems  of  much  importance  in  view  of 
the  great  problem  of  Reconstruction  which  the 
American  people  are  called  upon   to  solve. 

My  little  volume  takes  the  form  of  a  story  ; 
but  my  object  is  not  so  much  to  write  a  story 
as  to  draw  a  series  of  pictures  of  Southern  life 
and  Southern  people  in  colors  so  simple  and  yet 


viii  Introduction. 

so  vivid  as  shall  make  the  peculiar  character- 
istics of  the  various  classes  of  the  South  obvious 
to  the  most  untutored  understanding.  This  is 
my  principal  object  ;  but  I  shall  be  disappoint- 
ed if  I  do  not  tell  a  tale  that  may  interest  the 
youngest  reader,  and,  at  the  same  time,  afford 
food  for  reflection  to  the  oldest  and  wisest  head 
now  exercising  its  thoughts  on  the  great  ques- 
tion before  the  nation. 

The  task  seems  a  simple  one,  but  I  approach 
it  with  many  misgivings  ;  for  young  manhood  to 
me  is  a  sacred  thing,  a  grand  possibility,  an 
undeveloped  power  of  almost  unlimited  good  or 
unlimited  evil.  What  if  some  careless  word  of 
mine  should  warp  the  growing  good  or  rouse  the 
slumbering  evil !  I  hope  that  it  may  not ;  and 
in  that  hope  I  begin  my  story. 


CONTENTS. 


♦— 

PAGS 

Introduction 9 

Chapter 

I.  On  the  Battle-Ground         .        .        .        .11 

II.  Wounded 22 

III.  Prisoners 33 

IV.  The  House  in  the  Woods         ...  47 
V.  The  Captain's  Story 61 

VI.    At  the  Blacksmith's 69 

VII.    The  Slave  Boy's  Story 84 

VIII.  A  Midnight  Encounter    ....         103 

IX.  Recaptured     .        .        .        .    '   .        .        .110 

X.  The  Captain's  Dream         ....         123 

XL    On  the  Road i34 

XII.  The  old  Meeting-House    ....         145 

XIII.  A  "Spiritual"  Manifestation     .        .        .167 

XIV.  On  the  Mountain  by  Moonlight    .        .         174 
XV.  The  Ride  of  the  Blacksmith       .        .        .187 

XVI.    The  Blacksmith  among  the  Yankees      .         199 
XVII.    At  Mosby's 213 


X 


Conteftts. 


XVIII.  A  Strange  Career 225 

XIX.  The  Court-Martial 234 

XX.  The  Night  Attack    .....  247 

XXI.  Conclusion 258 

XXII.  The  Sum  of  the  Whole   ....  266 


AMONG    THE    GUERILLAS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

ON    THE    BATTLE-GROUND. 

AS  I  sit  down  to  write  by  this  bright,  blazing  fire, 
the  clouds  are  scudding  across  the  moon,  and 
the  wind  is  moaning  around  the  old  house,  shaking 
the  doors,  and  rattling  the  windows,  and  snapping 
the  branches  of  the  great  trees  outside  as  if  a  young 
tornado  were  cracking  its  whip  in  the  court-yard. 
On  just  such  a  night  a  wounded  boy  lay  out  on  the 
Wilderness  battle-ground ! 

You  have  heard  of  that  great  battle ;  how  two 
hundred  thousand  men  met  in  a  dense  forest,  and 
for  two  long  days  and  nights,  over  w^ooded  hills, 
and  through  tangled  valleys,  and  deep,  rocky  ra- 
vines, surged  against  each  other  like  angry  waves 
in  a  storm.  And  you  have  heard,  too,  —  what  is 
very  pitiful  to  hear,  —  how,  when  that  bloody  storm 
was  over,  and  the  sun  came  out,  dim  and  cold,  on 
the   cheerless    May   morning    which   followed,    thirty 


12  The  Yotmg  Virginian. 

thousand  men  lay  dead  and  dying  on  that  awful 
field.  Amid  such  a  host  of  dead  and  dying  men, 
you  might  overlook  one  little  boy,  who,  all  that  star- 
less Friday  night,  lay  there  wounded  in  the  Wilder- 
ness. I  do  not  want  you  to  overlook  him,  and 
therefore  I  am  going  to  tell  you  his  story. 

He  was  a  bright-eyed,  fair-haired  boy,  the  only 
son  of  his  mother,  who  was  a  widow.  He  used  to 
read  at  home  of  how  boys  had  gone  to  the  war,  how 
they  had  been  in  the  great  battles,  and  how  great 
generals  had  praised  them ;  and  he  longed  to  go 
to  the  war  too,  and  to  do  something  to  make  him- 
self as  famous  as  the  boy  who  fought  on  the  Rap- 
pahannock. For  a  long  time  his  mother  was  deaf 
to  his  entreaties,  —  and  he  would  not  go  without 
her  consent ;  but  at  last,  when  a  friend  of  his  fa- 
ther raised  a  company  of  hundred-days  men  in  his 
native  town,  she  let  him  join  as  a  drummer-boy  in 
the   regiment. 

The  only  battle  he  was  in  was  the  terrible  one  in 
the  Wilderness.  His  regiment  shared  in  the  first 
day's  fight,  but  he  escaped  unharmed ;  and  all  that  25 
night,  though  tired  and  hungry,  went  about  in  the 
woods  carrying  water  to  the  wounded.  The  next 
morning  he  snatched  a  few  hours'  sleep,  and  that 
and   a  good   breakfast   refreshed   him  greatly.       At 


Or 


On  the  Battlc-Ground.  13 

ten  o'clock  his  regiment  moved,  and  it  kept  moving 
and  fighting  all  the  day,  until  the  sun  went  down  ; 
but,  though  a  hundred  of  his  comrades  had  fallen 
around  him,  he  remained  unhurt. 

The  shadows  were  deepening  into  darkness,  and 
the  night  was  hanging  its  lanterns  up  in  the  sky, 
when  the  weary  men  threw  themselves  on  the  ground 
to  rest.  Overcome  with  fatigue,  he  too  lay  down, 
and,  giving  one  thought  to  his  mother  at  home,  and 
another  to  his  Father  in  heaven,  fell  fast  asleep. 
Suddenly  the  sharp  rattle  of  musketry  and  the  deaf- 
ening roar  of  cannon  sounded  along  the  lines,  and 
five  thousand  Rebels  rushed  out  upon  them.  Sur- 
prised and  panic-stricken,  our  men  broke  and  fled  ; 
and,  roused  by  the  terrible  uproar,  James  —  that 
was  his  name  —  sprang  to  his  feet,  but  only  in  time 
to  catch  in  his  arms  his  Captain,  who  was  falling. 
He  was  shot  through   and   through  by  a  minie  ball. 

The  boy  laid  him  gently  on  the  ground,  took  his 
head  tenderly  in  his  lap,  and  listened  to  the  last 
words  he  had  to  send  to  his  wife  and  children.  Mean- 
while, yelling  like  demons,  the  Rebels  came  on,  and 
passed  them.  Then  James  could  have  escaped  to 
the  woods,  but  he  would  not  leave  his  father's  friend 
when  he  was  dying. 

Soon  our  men  rallied,  and  in  turn  drove  the  enemy. 


14  TJie  Young  Virginian. 

Slowly  and  sullenly  the  Rebels  fell  back  to  the  little 
hill  on  which  James  and  his  friend  were  lying.  There 
they  made  a  stand,  and  for  half  an  hour  fought  des- 
perately, but  were  at  last  overborne  and  forced  back 
again.  As  they  were  on  the  eve  of  retreating,  a  tall, 
ragged  ruffian  came  up  to  James,  and  demanded  the 
watch  and  money  of  the  Captain. 

"  You  will  not  rob  a  dying  man  ? "  said  the  boy, 
looking  up  to  him  imploringly. 

"Wall,  I  woan't!"  was  the  Rebel's  brutal  reply,  as 
he  aimed  his  bayonet  straight  at  the  Captain's  heart. 

By  a  quick,  dexterous  movement,  James  parried 
the  blow;  but,  turning  suddenly  on  the  poor  boy, 
the  ruffian,  with  another  thrust  of  his  bayonet,  ran 
him  directly  through  the  body.  His  head  sunk  back 
to  the  ground,  and  he  fainted. 

How  long  he  lay  there  unconscious  he  does  not 
know,  but  when  he  came  to  himself  the  moon  had 
gone  down,  and  the  stars  had  disappeared,  and  thick, 
black  clouds  v,-ere  filling  all  the  sky.  It  did  not 
rain,  but  the  cold  wind  moaned  among  the  trees, 
and  chilled  him  through  and  through.  He  tried  to 
rise,  but  a  sharp  pain  came  in  ^his  side,  and  for  the 
first  time  he  thought  of  his  wound.  Passing  his  hand 
to  it,  he  found  it  clotted  with  blood.  The  cold  air 
had  stopped  the  bleeding,   and  thus  saved  his  life. 


On  the  Battle-Ground.  15 

Though  the  bayonet  had  gone  clear  through  him, 
the  hurt  was  not  mortal,  for  no  vital  part  was  in- 
jured. 

He  thought  of  the  Captain,  and  spoke  his  name  ; 
but  no  answer  came.  Then  he  reached  out  his  hand 
to  find  him.  He  was  there,  but  his  face  was  cold,  — 
colder  than  the  cold  night  that  was  about  them.  He 
was  dead. 

The  wounded  lay  all  around ;  and  all  this  while 
their  cries  and  groans,  as  they  called  piteously  for 
water,  or  moaned  aloud  in  their  agony,  came  to  his 
ear,  and  went  to  his  very  soul.  He  had  heard  their 
cries  the  night  before,  as  he  crept  about  among  them 
in  the  thick  woods ;  but  then  they  had  not  sounded 
so  sad,  so  pitiful,  as  now,  and  that  night  was  not 
so  cold,  so  dark,  so  cheerless  as  this  was.  Soon  he 
knew  the  full  extent  of  their  agony.  An  intolerable 
thirst  came  upon  him.  Hot,  melted  lead  seemed 
to  run  along  his  veins,  and  a  burning  heat,  as  of  a 
fire  of  hot  coals  kindling  in  his  side,  almost  con- 
sumed him.  He  cried  out  for  help,  but  no  help 
came,  —  for  water,  but  still  he  thirsted.  Then  he 
prayed,  —  prayed  to  the  Good  Father,  who  he  knew 
was  looking  pitifully  down  on  him  through  the  thick 
darkness,  to  come  and  help  him. 

And  He  came.     He  always  comes  to  those  who 


1 6  The  You7ig  Virgmiait. 

ask  for  Him.  Soon  the  clouds  grew  darker,  the 
wind  rose  higher,  and  the  rain  —  the  cooling,  sooth- 
ing, grateful  rain  —  poured  down  in  torrents.  It  wet 
him  through  and  through,  but  it  eased  his  pain,  cooled 
the  fever  in  his  blood,  and  he  slept !  In  all  that  cold 
and  pelting  storm  he  slept ! 

It  was  broad  day  when  he  awoke.  The  sun  was 
shining  dimly  through  the  thick  masses  of  gray  clouds 
which  floated  in  the  sky,  but  the  wind  had  gone  down, 
and  the  rain  was  over.  The  moans  of  the  wounded 
still  came  to  him ;  but  they  were  not  so  frequent,  nor 
so  terrible,  as  they  were  the  night  before.  Many 
had  found  relief  from  the  rain,  and  many  had  ceased 
moaning  forever. 

He  could  not  rise,  but  after  long  and  painful 
effort  he  succeeded  in  turning  over  on  his  side. 
Then  he  had  a  view  of  the  scene  around  him.  He 
lay  near  the  summit  qf  a  gentle  hill,  at  whose  base 
a  little  brook  was  flowing.  At  the  north  it  was 
crowned  with  a  dense  growth  of  oaks  and  pines  and 
cedar  thickets,  but  at  the  south  and  west  it  sloped 
away  into  waving  meadows  and  pleasant  cornfields, 
already  green  with  the  opening  beauty  of  spring. 
Beyond  the  meadows  were  other  hills,  and  knolls, 
and  rocky  heights,  all  covered  with  an  almost  im- 
penetrable forest;  and  there  the  hardest  fighting  of 


On  the  Battle-Groiuid.  ly 

those  terrible  days  was  done.  A  narrow  road,  bor- 
dered by  a  worm-fence,  wound  around  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  and  led  to  a  large  mansion  standing  half 
hidden  in  a  grove  of  oaks  and  elms,  not  half  a  mile 
away.  Before  this  mansion  were  pleasant  lawns  and 
gardens,  and  in  its  rear  a  score  or  more  of  little 
negro  houses,  whose  whitewashed  walls  were  gleam- 
ing in  the  sun.  This  was  the  plantation  —  so  James 
afterwards  learned  —  of  Major  Lucy,  one  of  those 
men  whose  bad  ambition  brought  the  late  dreadful 
war  on  our  country. 

The  scene  was  very  beautiful,  and,  looking  at  it, 
James  forgot  for  a  moment  the  darker  picture,  drawn 
in  blood,  on  the  grass  around  him.  But  there  it 
was.  Broken  muskets,  torn  knapsacks,  overturned 
caissons,  wounded  horses  snorting  in  agony,  and 
fair-haired  boys  and  gray-haired  men  mangled  and 
bleeding,  —  some  piled  in  heaps,  and  some  stretched 
out  singly  to  die,  —  lay  all  over  that  green  hillside ! 
Here  and  there  a  crippled  soldier  was  creeping  about 
among  the  wounded,  and,  close  by,  a  stalwart,  gray- 
haired  man,  the  blood  dripping  from  his  dangling 
sleeve,  was  wrapping  a  blue-eyed,  pale-faced  boy  in 
his  blanket.  "Don't  cry,  Freddy,"  he  said;  "you 
shan't  be  cold !  Your  mother  '11  soon  be  here ! " 
But  the  boy  gave  no  answer,  for  —  he  was  dead! 

B 


iS  The  Young  Virginian. 

"  He  don't  hear  you,"  said  James.  "  He  is  n't 
cold  now ! " 

"I  'm  afraid  he  is, — he  said  he  was.  Oh!  if  his 
mother  knew  he  was  here !  't  would  break  her  heart, 
—  break  her  heart!"  moaned  the  man,  still  wrap- 
ping the  blanket  about  the  boy. 

James  closed  his  eyes  to  shut  out  the  painful 
scene,  and  the  thought  of  his  own  mother  came  to 
him.  Would  it  not  break  her  heart  to  know  that 
he  was  wounded  ?  to  hear,  perhaps,  that  he  was 
dead  ?  He  must  not  die ;  for  her  sake,  he  must  not 
die !  One  only  could  help  him,  and  so  he  prayed. 
Again  he  prayed  that  the  Good  Father  would  come 
to  him,  and  again  the  Good  Father  came. 

"  What  is  ye  a-doin'  yere,  honey,  —  a  little  one  loike 
ye  ? "  asked  a  kind  voice  at  his  side. 

He  looked  up.  It  was  an  old  black  woman, 
dressed  in  a  faded  woollen  gown,  a  red  and  yellow 
turban,  and  a  pair  of  flesh-colored  stockings  which 
Nature  herself  had  given  her.  She  was  very  short, 
almost  as  broad  as  she  was  long,  and  had  a  face  as 
large  round  as  the  moon,  —  and  it  looked  very  much 
like  the  moon  when  shining  through  a  black  cloud  ; 
for,  though  darker  than  midnight,  it  was  all  over 
light,  —  that  kind  of  light  which  shines  through  the 
faces  of  good  people. 


On   The  Battlc-GroHJui.  19 

"  I  am  wounded ;  I  want  water,"  said  the  boy, 
feebly. 

"Ye  shill  hab  it,  honey,"  said  the  woman,  giving 
him  some  from  a  bucket  she  had  set  on  the  ground. 

"  Give  some  to  my  lad,"  cried  the  man  who  sat  by 
the  dead  boy ;  "  he's  been  crying  for  it  all  night,  — 
all  night !     Did  n't   you  hear  him  ? " 

"  No,  I  did  n't,  massa.  I  hain't  been  yere  more  'n 
a  hour,  and  a  tousand  's  a  heap  fur  one  ole  'ooman  ter 
'tend  on,"  replied  the  negress,  filling  a  gourd  from  the 
bucket,  and  going  with  it  to  the  dead  boy. 

She  stooped  down  and  held  the  water  to  his  lips, 
but  in  a  moment  started  back,  and  cried  out  in  a 
frightened  way,  —  "  He  'm  dead  !  He  can't  drink  no 
more ! " 

"He  isn't  dead!"  yelled  the  man,  fiercely;  '^  he 
sha'n't  die  !     Give  me  the  water,  old  woman." 

With  a  trembling  hand  he  tried  to  give  it  to  his 
son.  He  held  it  to  the  boy's  lips  for  a  moment, 
then,  dropping  the  gourd  and  sinking  to  the 
ground,  cried  out — "It'll  kill  his  mother,  —  kill 
his   mother  !     Oh  !    oh  !  " 

"  He  'm  better  off,  massa,"  said  the  woman,  in  a 
voice  full  of  pity ;  "  he  'm  whar  he  can  drink  foreber 
ob  de  bery  water  ob  life." 

"  Go    away,   go   away,    old    woman,  —  don't   speak 


20  The  Voting  Virginian. 

to  me ! "  moaned  the  man,  throwing  his  arms  around 
the  body  of  the  boy,  and  burying  his  face  in  the 
blanket  he  had  wrapped  about  him. 

Brushing  her  tears  away  with  her  apron,  the  woman 
turned  to  James,  and  said,  — "  Whar  is  ye  hurted, 
honey?     Leff  aunty  see." 

The  boy  opened  his  jacket,  and  showed  her  his 
side.  She  could  not  see  the  wound,  for  the  blood  had 
glued  his  shirt,  and  even  his  waistcoat,  to  his  body ; 
but  she  said,  kindly,  —  "  Don't  fret,  honey.  'T  ain't 
nuffin  ter  hurt,  —  it  '11  soon  be  well.  Ole  Katy  '11 
borrer  a  blanket  or  so  frum  some  o'  dese  as  is  done 
dead,  and  git  ye  warm ;  and  den,  when  she  's  gub'n  a 
little  more  water  ter  de  firsty  ones,  she  '11  take  a  keer 
ob  you,  —  she  will,  honey;  so  neber  you  far." 

She  went  away,  but  soon  came  again  with  the 
blankets,  and  wrapping  two  about  him,  and  putting 
another  under  his  head,  said,  —  "  Dar,  honey,  now 
you  '11  be  warm ;  and  neber  you  keer  ef  ole  Katy  hab 
borrer'd  de  blankets.  Dey  '11  neber  want  'em  darselfs  ; 
and  she  knows  it  '11  do  dar  bery  souls  good,  eben 
whar  dey  is,  ter  know  you 's  got  'em.  So  neber  keer, 
and  gwo  ter  sleep,  —  dat  's  a  good  chile.  Aunty  '11 
be  yere  agin  in  a  jiffin." 

James  thanked  the  good  woman,  and,  closing  his 
eyes  again,  soon  fell  asleep.     The  sun  was  right  over 


On  the  Battle-Gronnd.  21 

his  head,  when  old  Katy  awoke  him,  and  said,— 
"  Now,  honey.  Aunty  's  ready  now.  She  '11  tote  you 
off  ter  de  plantation,  and  hab  you  all  well  in  less  nur 
no  time,  she  will  ;  fur  massa  Is  'way,  and  dar  hainlt  no 
'un  dar  now  ter  say  she  sha*n't." 

"  You  can't  carry  me  ;  I  'm  too  heavy,  Aunty,"  said 
James,  making  a  faint  effort  to  smile. 

« Carr>'  you !  Why,  honey  chile,  ole  Katy  could 
tote  a  big  man,  forty  times  so  heaby  as  you  is,  ef  dey 
was  only  a  hurted  so  bad  as  you." 

Taking  him  up,  then,  as  if  he  had  been  a  bag  of 
feathers,  she  laid  his  head  over  her  shoulder,  and 
cuddling  him  close  to  her  bosom,  carried  him  off  to 
the  large  mansion  he  had  seen  in  the  distance. 


22  The  Young  Virginian. 


CHAPTER    II. 


# 

WOUNDED. 


THE  house  to  which  the  aged  negress  bore  the 
wounded  boy  was  a  square,  antiquated  mansion, 
originally  something  in  the  fashion  of  the  old  farm- 
houses of  New  England.  The  hand  of  improvement, 
however,  had  been  busy  with  it,  until  it  had  assumed 
the  appearance  of  a  country  clown,  who,  above  his 
own  coarse  brogans  and  homespun  trousers,  is  wear- 
ing the  stove-pipe  hat,  fancy  waistcoat,  and  "  long-tail 
blue"  of  some  city  gentleman.  For  a  house,  it  had 
the  oddest-looking  face  you  ever  saw.  Its  nose  was  a 
porch  as  ugly  and  prominent  as  the  beak  of  President 
Tyler ;  and  its  eyes  were  wide,  sleepy  windows,  which 
seemed  to  leer  at  you  in  a  half-comic,  half-wicked 
way.  One  of  its  ears  was  a  round  protuberance, 
something  like  the  pole  "sugar-loaves"  the  Indians 
live  in  ;  the  other,  a  square  box  resembling  the  sen- 
try-houses in  which  watchmen  hive  of  stormy  nights. 
Just  above  its  nose,  a  narrow  strip  of  weather-board- 
ing answered  for  a  forehead  ;  and  right  over  this,  a 
huge  pigeon-coop  rose  up  in  the  air  Uke  the  top-knot 


Wounded.  23 

worn  in  pictures  by  that  "  old  public  functionary," 
Mr.  Buchanan.  The  rim  of  its  hat  was  a  huge  beam, 
apparently  the  keel  of  some  ship  gone  to  roost,  and 
its  crown  a  cupola,  half  carried  away  by  a  cannon- 
shot,  and  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  dilapidated 
beaver,  which  had  been  pelted  by  the  storms  of  a 
dozen  hard  winters.  The  whole  of  its  roof,  in  fact, 
looked  like  the  hull  of  a  vessel  stove  in  amidships, 
and  turned  bottom  upwards ;  and,  with  its  truncated 
gables,  reminded  one  of  those  down-east  craft,  which 
an  old  sea-captain  used  to  tell  me,  when  I  was  a 
boy,  were  built  by  the  mile,  and  sawed  off  at  the  ends 
so  as  to  suit  any  market. 

But,  notwithstanding  these  odd  features,  the  old 
house  had  a  most  cosey  and  comfortable  air  about 
it.  Great  trees  were  growing  before  its  door-way,  and 
Virginia  creepers  and  honeysuckles  were  clambering 
over  its  brown  walls  and  wide  windows,  filling  the 
yard  with  fragrance,  and  hiding  with  their  blooming 
beauty  at  least  one  half  of  its  grotesque  ugliness. 

Pausing  to  rest  awhile  on  its  door-step,  old  Katy 
entered  the  broad  hall,  and  bore  James  into  the 
"sugar-loaf"  projection  of  which  I  have  spoken.  It 
was  a  little  2ilcove  built  off  from  the  library,  and  fur- 
nished with  a  few  chairs,  a  wash-stand,  and  a  low 
bed  covered  with  a  patchwork  counterpane.     On  this 


24  The  Young  Virginian. 

bed  the  old  woman  laid  the  wounded  boy  ;  and  then, 
sinking  into  a  chair,  and  wiping  the  perspiration  from 
her  face,  said  to  him,  "  You  's  little,  honey,  but  you  's 
heaby,  —  right  heaby  fur  sich  a  ole  'ooman  ter  tote 
as  I  is." 

"  I  know  I  am.  Aunty,"  said  the  boy,  to  whom  the 
long  walk  had  brought  great  pain,  and  who  now  be- 
gan to  feel  deathly  sick  and  faint.  "  You  might  as 
well  have  let  me  die  there." 

"  Die,  honey !  "  cried  the  old  negress,  springing 
to  her  feet  as  nimbly  as  if  she  had  been  a  young 
girl ;  "  you  hain't  a  gwine  ter  die,  —  ole  Katy  woan't 
lefF  you  do  dat,  nohow." 

James  looked  at  her  with  a  wear}^,  but  grateful 
look,  as,  undoing  his  jacket  and  waistcoat,  she  wet 
his  shirt  with  a  dampened  cloth,  and  tried  to  remove 
it  from  his  wound.  The  long  w^alk  —  old  Kat}''s  gait 
was  a  swaying  movement,  nearly  as  rough  as  a  horse's 
trot  —  had  set  the  wound  to  bleeding  afresh,  so  the 
shirt  came  away  without  any  trouble,  and  she  saw  the 
deep,  wide  gash  in  the  boy's  side.  The  bayonet  had 
entered  his  body  at  the  outer  edge  of  the  ribs,  just 
above  the  hip,  and,  going  clear  through,  had  come 
out  at  his  back,  making  a  ghastly  wouncT.  It  seemed 
all  but  impossible  to  keep  the  precious  life  from 
oozing  away  through  such  a  frightful  rent ;  but,  cov- 


Wounded.  25 

ering  it  hastily  with  the  cloth,  the  old  woman  said  to 
James  in  a  cheerful  way  :  "  'Tain't  nuffin',  honey,  — 
nuffin'  ter  hurt.  Ole  Katy  's  seed  a  heap  ob  wuss 
ones  nur  dat ;  and  dey  's  gwine  'bout  now,  as  well  as 
dey  eber  was.  You  '11  be  ober  it  right  soon.  But 
you  muss  keep  quiet,  honey,  and  not  grebe  nor  worry 
after  nuffin' ;  fur  ef  you  does,  de  feber  mought  git  in 
dar,  and  ef  dat  ar  fire  onct  got  ter  burnin'  right 
smart,  dar  's  no  tellin'  but  it  might  bum  you  right 
up,  spite  of  all  de  water  in  de  worle." 

The  pain  of  his  wound  did  not  prevent  the  boy 
from  smiling  at  the  idea  of  being  put  out  like  a  house 
on  fire ;  but  he  made  no  reply,  and  the  old  negress, 
gently  drawing  off  his  pantaloons  and  shoes,  said 
again,^in  a  cheerful  tone  :  "  Now,  honey,  keep  bery 
quiet,  and  Aunty  '11  go  fur  de  ice.  Dar  's  plenty 
ob  dat  'bout  de  house.  She  '11  bind  it  on  ter  de 
hurt,  till  it  'm  so  cold  you  '11  tink  you  'm  layin'  out 
on  de  frosty  ground   right  in  de  middle  ob  winter." 

She  went  away,  but  soon  returned  with  the  ice. 
Binding  it  about  his  wound,  she  brushed  the  long 
hair  from  the  boy's  face;  and  then,  bending  down, 
kissed  his  forehead. 

"  You  won't  mind  a  pore  ole  brack  'ooman  doin' 
dat,  honey,"  she  said.  "  She  can't  holp  it ;  case 
you  looks  jest  Uke  her  own  Robby,  dat 's  loss  and 
2 


26  The  Young  Virginian. 

gone,  —  loss  and  gone  !  Only  he  'm  a  little  more 
tanned  nur  you,  —  a  little  more  tanned,  —  dat  's  all." 

"  And  you  had  a  son !  "  said  James,  opening  his 
eyes,  and  looking  up  pleasantly  at  the  old  woman ; 
"I  hope  he  is  n't  dead." 

"  No,  he  hain't  dead  honey,  —  not  dead  ;  but  he  'm 
loss  and  gone,  —  loss  and  gone  from  ole  Katy,  — 
foreber !  Oh  !  oh  !  "  and  the  poor  woman  swayed 
her  body  back  and  forth  on  her  chair,  and  moaned 
piteously. 

"I  'm  sorry, — very  sorry,  Aunty,"  said  James, 
raising  his  hand  to  brush  away  his  tears.  "  One  so 
good  as  you  should  have  no  trouble." 

"  But  I  hain't  good,  honey ;  and  you  mussn't  be 
sorr}^, — you  mussn't  be  nuffin',  only  quiet,  and  gwo  ter 
sleep.  Ole  Katy  woan't  talk  no  more."  In  a  moment, 
however,  she  added  :  "  Hab  you  a  mudder,  honey?" 

"  Yes,  Aunty,  and  I  'm  all  she  has  in  the  world." 

"And  hab  she  eber  teached  you  ter  pray?" 

"Yes.  I  pray  every  morning  and  night.  You 
came  to  me  because  I  prayed." 

"  I  done  dat,  honey !  De  good  Lord  send  me 
case  you  ax  him,  5'ou  may  be  shore !  And,  maybe, 
ef  we  ax  him  now,  he  '11  make  you  well.  I  knows 
young  massa  say  'tain't  no  use  ter  pray,  —  dat  de  Lord 
neber  change,  and  do  all  his  business  arter  fix'  laws ; 


Wounded.  27 

but  r  reckon  one  o'  dem  laws  am  dat  we  muss  pray. 
I  s'pose  it  clars  away  de  tick  clouds  dat  am  'tween 
us  and  de  angels,  so  dey  kin  see  whar  we  am,  and 
what  we  wants,  and  come  close  down  and  holp  us. 
And,  honey,  we  '11  pray  now,  and  maybe  de  good 
Lord  will  send  de  angels,  and  make  you  well." 

Kneeling,  then,  on  the  floor  by  the  side  of  the  bed, 
she  prayed  to  Him  who  is  her  Father  and  our  Fa- 
ther, —  her  God  and  our  God.  It  was  a  low,  simple, 
humble  prayer,  but  it  reached  the  ear  of  Heaven, 
and  brought  the  angels  down. 

It  was  eight  days  before  James  could  sit  up,  and 
day  and  night,  during  all  of  that  time,  old  Katy 
watched  by  him.  Every  few  hours  she  changed  the 
bandage,  and  bound  fresh  ice  upon  his  wound ;  and 
that  was  all  she  did,  — but  it  saved  his  life.  The 
only  danger  was  from  inflammation,  —  the  ice  and 
a  low  diet  kept  that  down,  and  his  young  and  vigor- 
ous constitution  did  the  rest  At  the  end  of  a  fort- 
night, leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  old  negress,  he 
walked  out  into  the  garden  and  sat  down  in  a  lit- 
tle arbor,  in  full  view  of  the  recent  battle-ground. 
It  was  a  clear,  mild  morning  in  May,  but  a  dark 
cloud  overhung  the  little  hill,  as  though  the  smoke 
of  the  great  conflict  had  not  yet  cleared  away,  but, 
with  all  its  tale  of  blood  and  horror,  was  still  go- 


28  TJie  Young  Virginian. 

ing  up  to  heaven.  And  what  a  tale  it  was !  Brothers 
butchered  by  brothers,  fathers  slaughtered  by  sons, 
and  all  to  further  the  bad  ambition  of  a  few  worth- 
less men,  —  so  few  that  one  might  count  them  on 
the  fingers  of  his  two  hands ! 

"  And  what  became  of  the  wounded  after  the  bat- 
tle, Aunty  ? "  asked  James,  as  the  sight  of  the  grassy 
field,  trodden  down  by  many  feet,  and  still  reddened, 
here  and  there,  with  the  blood  of  the  slain,  brought 
the  awful  scene  all  freshly  to  his  mind.  "  You  have 
n't  told  me  that."  (She  had  forbidden  him  to  talk, 
for  she  knew  that  his  recovery  depended  almost 
entirely  on  his  being  kept  free  from  excitement.) 

"  The  dead  ones  was  buried,  honey,  and  the 
wounded  toted  off  by  de  graybacks,  de  evenin'  and 
mornin'  arter  I  brung  you  away  from  dar.  De  Se- 
cesh  hab  de  field,  ye  sees,  at  lass  ;  and  dey  tuck 
all  de  Nordern  folks  as  was  leff,   pris'ners." 

"  And  what  became  of  the  poor  man  who  wanted 
water  for  his  son  ?     Do  you  know,  Aunty  ?  " 

"  When  I  wus  a  gwine  on  de  hill,  arter  you  go 
asleep  in  de  house,  I  seed  him  a  wrappin'  up  de 
little  boy,  and  totein  him  off  ter  de  woods.  I  ax 
him  whar  he  wus  gwine,  and  he  look  at  me  wid  a 
strange,  wild  look,  and  say  nuffin',  only,  '  Home  — 
home.'      He  look  so  bery  wild,  and  so  fierce  loike, 


Wotmdcd.  29 

dat  I  reckon  he  wus  crazed,  —  clean  gone.  De  lass 
I  seed  o'  him,  he  wus  gwine  stret  up  Norf,  —  wid 
the  little  chi,le  in  his  arms." 

"  Poor  man  !  "  exclaimed  the  boy.  "  How  many 
have  fared  worse  than  I  have  ! " 

"  A  heap,  honey.  I  knows  a  heap  o'  big  folks  wuss 
off  nur  eben  ole  Katy." 

"And  you  say  that,  Aunty,  —  you,  who  are  a  slave, 
and  have  lost  your  — "  He  checked  himself,  for  a 
look  of  pain  came  upon  the  face  of  the  old  negress. 
It  was  gone  in  a  moment,  and  then,  in  a  low,  chant- 
ing tone,  —  broken  and  wild  at  times,  but  touching 
and  sad,  as  the  strange  music  of  the  far-off  land  she 
came  from,  —  she  told  him  something  of  what  her 
life  had  been. 

Her  Robby, — her  last  one,  —  had  been  taken 
away,  she  said,  to  the  hot  fields,  where  the  serpents 
sting,  and  the  fevers  breed,  and  the  black  man  goes 
to  die.  All  were  gone,  —  all  her  children,  —  stolen, 
sold  away,  before  they  knew  the  Lord,  or  the  good 
thing  from  the  evil.  Sold  !  because  her  master  owed 
gambling  debts,  and  her  mistress  loved  the  diamond 
toys  that  adorn  the  hair  and  deck  the  fingers  !  But 
one  she  begged,  —  the  mother  of  the  boy,  —  and 
she  grew  up  pure  as  the  snow  before  it  leaves  the 
clouds.     Pure  as  the  snow,  but  "young  massa"  came. 


30  TJie  Young  ViJ'ginian. 

and  the  snow  fell  —  down  to  the  ground  —  soiled  like 
the  snow  we  tread  on.  She  tired  him  then ;  and  he 
sold  her  to  be  a  trader's  thing.  But  the  boy  was  left, 
—  "  young  massa's  "  child,  —  the  boy  he  promised 
her  forever.  She  brought  him  up,  taught  him  to 
read,  and  set  the  whole  world  by  him.  Then  the 
troubles  came,  —  the  dark  hour  before  the  morning. 
She  felt  them  in  the  air,  and  knew  why  all  the  storm 
was  brewing.  It  broke  her  heart,  but  she  sent  him 
away  to  the  Union  lines,  to  grow  up  there  a  free 
man.  The  Northern  general  drove  him  back,  and 
then  —  "  young  massa"  sold  him  to  work  and  starve 
and  faint  and  die  among  the  swamps  of  Georgia. 
And  now  —  they  all  were  gone  !  All  were  lost,  — 
but  the  Lord  was  left.  He  had  heard  her  cr}',  — 
was  coming  now,  with  vengeance  in  his  great  right 
hand,  to  lift  the  lowly  from  the  earth,  and  bring  the 
mighty  down. 

Her  last  words  were  spoken  with  an  energy  that 
startled  James.  In  his  cold  Northern  home  he  had 
learned  little  of  her  warm  Southern  race,  in  whose 
veins  a  fire  is  slumbering  which,  if  justice  be  not 
done  them,  will  yet  again  set  this  nation  ablaze. 

The  plantation,  and  old  Katy  too,  belonged  to 
Major  Lucy,  a  prominent  man  in  that  part  of  Vir- 
ginia,   who,    at   its   very  outbreak,   joined  the   great 


Woimded.  3 1 

Rebellion.  He  was  away  with  Lee's  army  when 
Grant  crossed  the  Rapidan,  but  he  no  sooner  heard 
of  that  event  than  he  repaired  to  his  home,  and  re- 
moved his  slaves  and  more  valuable  property  to 
the  far  South.  Old  Katy  he  left  behind,  partly  be- 
cause she  refused  to  go,  and  partly  because  he  thought 
she  might  somewhat  protect  his  house  from  the  North- 
ern soldiers,  who,  he  supposed,  would  soon  be  in  that 
region.  For  this  reason  the  old  negress  was  alone  in 
the  great  mansion,  and  to  this  fact  James  owed  his 
preservation ;  for,  though  her  white  owners  might  have 
given  him  hospitable  care,  they  would  not  have  shown 
him  the  devoted  attention  which  she  had,  and  that  it 
was  which  saved  his  life. 

While  James  was  so  very  sick  old  Katy  had  slept 
in  his  little  room,  but  now  that  he  was  out  of  all 
danger,  and  rapidly  recovering,  she  made  her  bed 
in  the  large  library  leading  from  it;  leaving,  however, 
the  door  ajar  at  night,  so  she  could  at  once  hear  the 
slightest  sound.  Every  evening  she  took  the  great 
Bible  from  a  shelf  in  this  library,  and  read,  generally 
from  the  Psalms,  or  Isaiah,  —  that  poem  grander  than 
the  Iliad,  or  any  which  poet  yet  has  written ;  and  one 
night,  about  a  fortnight  after  they  were  first  together 
in  the  garden,  she  read  to  him  the  fifteenth  and  six- 
teenth chapters  of  that  book,  and  then  said  :  "  Moab, 


32  The  Young  Virginian. 

honey,  am  dis  Southern  land,  dat  am  'laid  waste, 
and  brought  ter  silence,'  case  it  hab  'oppressed  His 
people  and  turned  away  from  His  testimonies.'  But 
de  Lord  say  yere  dat  widin'  free  yars  it  shill  be 
brought  low,  and  its  glory  be  contemned;  and  de 
remnant  shill  be  bery  small  and  feeble ;  but  den 
dey  shill  take  counsel,  execute  judgment,  and  let 
de  outcasts  dwell  widin'  dem." 

"  I  hope  it  won't  be  three  years,  Aunty,"  said 
James.     "  That 's  an  awful  long  while  to  wait." 

"  It  'pears  long  ter  you,  honey,  but  ole  Katy  hab 
waited  a'most  all  har  life,  —  eber  sence  she  come 
ober  in  de  slave-ship ;  and  now  all  she  ask  ob  de 
Lord  am  ter  leff  her  see  dat  day.  And  she  know 
he  will !  'case  he  hab  took  har  eberyting  else,  — 
eberyting,  —  eben  har  little  Robby." 

"  No  !  He  has  n't,  Granny  !  Robby 's  here,  just 
as  good  as  new." 

Engaged  as  they  were  in  conversation,  they  had 
not  observed  a  comely  lad,  taller  than  James,  who 
a  moment  before  had  entered  the  room.  As  he 
spoke,  old  Katy  sprang  to  her  feet,  let  the  Bible  fall 
to  the  floor,  and,  with  a  wild  erf,  threw  her  arms 
about  him. 


Prisoners.  33 

CHAPTER    III. 

PRISONERS. 

THE  new-comer  was  a  lad  of  not  more  than  eigh- 
teen ;  with  a  clear,  oUve  skin,  glossy  black  hair, 
a  lithe,  well-knit  frame,  and  straight,  European  fea- 
tures. He  wore  a  tattered  hat,  untanned  brogans, 
and  motley  uniform  of  gray  and  brown,  badly  torn 
and  out  at  the  knees  and  elbows  ;  but,  though  so 
meanly  clad,  there  was  about  him  that  indefinable 
something  which  denotes  good-breeding,  and  which 
showed  that  his  blood  had  flowed  in  the  veins  of  half 
a  dozen  manly  ancestors. 

When  her  first  outburst  of  joy  was  over,  the  old 
negress  plied  the  quadroon  boy  with  questions  : 
"  Whar  did  you  come  from,  Robby  >  How  did  you 
git  yere?"    she  said. 

It  was  the  oft-told  tale ;  two  hundred  years  old, 
and  yet  new  only  yesterday;  but  never  again  to 
be  told  in  this  free  country. 

When  sold  away  by  his  father,  rather  more  than 
a  year  before,  Robby  was  taken  to  a  rice  plantation 
not  far  from  Savannah.     There,  though  unused  to  any 


34  ^^^^  Young  Virginian. 

but  the  lightest  labor,  he  was  set  at  work  in  the  wet 
fields,  and  given  tasks  altogether  unsuited  to  one  of 
his  strength.  His  condition  was  very  desolate,  for 
he  was  without  friends,  and  many  weary  miles  away 
from  his  home  and  his  grandmother ;  but  the  good 
old  woman  had  taught  him  to  pray,  and  every  morn 
ing  and  evening,  and  often  at  midday,  leaning  on  his 
hoe  in  the  hot  sun,  he  would  lay  his  hard  lot  before 
the  Great  Father.  This  gave  him  hope  and  com- 
fort ;  for  at  such  times  he  would  fancy  he  heard  voices 
all  about  him,  —  voices  of  the  good  spirits  that  peo- 
ple the  air,  and  live  in  the  bright  heavens  above  us, 
bidding  him  be  strong,  and  of  good  courage,  for 
deliverance  was  coming.  This  to  us  is  idle  super- 
stition, but  to  the  slave  boy  the  voices  were  real  ; 
and  so  they  have  been  to  thousands  of  his  race. 
Toiling  in  the  rice-field,  stretched  upon  the  whipping- 
rack,  and  standing  on  the  auction-block,  they  have 
thought  they  heard  them,  sounding  in  their  hearts 
as  if  they  were  the  very  echoes  of  heaven. 

But  whether  the  voices  were  real  or  not,  they  gave 
the  slave  boy  strength  to  do  his  work,  and  bear  his 
burdens.  Yet  days,  and  weeks,  and  months  went 
by,  and  no  help  came ;  and  his  fare  grew  worse,  and 
his  tasks  harder.  At  last  his  strength  and  health 
gave  way,  and  he  lagged  behind  in  hoeing  his  row ; 


Prisoners.  35 

and  finally,  one  day,  fell  down  in  the  field  exhausted. 
His  hot  flesh  and  glazing  eye  told  that  the  fever 
was  on  him  ;  but  the  brutal  overseer  ordered  him  to 
the  whipping-post,  and  there,  his  arms  drawn  above 
his  head,  and  his  feet  tied  to  the  stake,  his  back  was 
ploughed  with  the  terrible  lashes.  Nature  could  not 
hold  out,  and  he  was  taken  down,  insensible  and 
delirious. 

The  next  he  remembered  was  being  in  a  pleasant 
room  in  the  great  mansion.  The  good  mistress, 
hearing  of  his  illness,  had  ordered  him  conveyed 
there  ;  and  there  he  was  cared  for  until  he  recovered. 
Then,  one  day,  his  young  master  came  home  from 
the  army,  wounded.  Robby  was  set  to  attend  on 
him  ;  and  when  the  young  man  rejoined  his  regiment, 
the  slave  boy  was  taken  along  as  his  body-servant. 
So  it  came  about  that  he  was  again  in  Virginia.  He 
had  been  in  all  the  recent  battles  and  marches,  and 
once  was  only  four  miles  from  the  mansion  ;  but  no 
opportunity  had  occurred  of  his  escaping,  till  a  few 
days  before.  Then,  in  a  night  attack  on  his  regiment, 
he  stole  off  in  the  darkness,  and,  though  forty  miles 
away,  managed,  by  hiding  in  the  houses  of  friendly 
blacks  by  day,  and  travelling  only  at  night,  to  get 
back  to  his  grandmother. 

"  De  good  Lord   guided  you,  honey,  you  may  be 


36  The  You7ig  Virgi?iian. 

shore,"  said  old  Katy,  when  the  slave  boy  finished 
his  story  :  "  De  whippin'  was  de  bery  ting  fur  you ; 
and  so  it  am  allers,  —  what  'pears  de  bery  wuss,  and 
de  hardest  ter  bar,  am  de  bery  best,  and  jest  what  we 
can't  git  'long  widout,  no  how,  De  good  Lord,  he 
know  dat !  He  'm  allers  de  kindest,  when  he  seem 
de  mos'  cruel ;  and  allers  de  nighest,  when  he  seem 
de  furderest  way  off." 

The  two  boys  soon  became  fast  friends.  After  a 
while,  the  wound  of  James  healed,  and  he  could 
walk  about ;  but  it  was  a  long  while  before  he  re- 
gained his  full  strength.  This  detained  him  at  the 
plantation,  and  with  Robert  he  roamed  the  woods 
and  hills  around  the  old  mansion,  and  soon  became 
so  attached  to  the  slave  boy,  that  he  urged  him  and 
old  Katy  to  go  with  him  to  his  home  in  Ohio.  At 
first  the  old  negress  refused ;  but  when  she  saw  her 
grandson's  anxiety  to  go,  she  consented. 

But  it  was  a  hard  struggle  to  her.  Though  the 
old  plantation  had  been  the  scene  of  untold  sorrow 
to  herself  and  her  children,  she  clung  to  it  as  if  it 
were  a  snug  corner  of  the  garden  of  Eden.  And  so 
it  is  with  all  of  her  race.  The  poorest  plantation 
slave,  whose  life  is  only  one  round  of  hopeless  days 
and  weary  nights,  loves  his  mean  hut  of  logs,  with 
its  earth  floor,  and  wretched  patch  of  corn  and  col- 


Prisoners.  37 

lards,  more  than  we  love  our  comfortable  homes, 
and  all  their  cheerful  surroundings.  Those  who  would 
tear  him  from  this  rude  home,  and  plant  him  in  some 
new  and  strange  country,  are  his  worst  enemies.  He 
cannot  bear  removal.  The  graceful  elm  will  grow 
in  any  soil  ;  but  the  scraggy  oak  strikes  its  roots 
deep  in  the  earth,  and,  nine  'times  out  of'  ten,  dies 
when  transplanted.  So  would  it  be  with  the  black 
man. 

May  had  rolled  away  into  June,  and  June  had 
gone  with  all  the  other  Junes  before  James  was  really 
strong,  and  old  Katy  fully  prepared  for  the  long 
journey.  She  at  last  got  together  a  few  clothes  and 
a  small  store  of  provisions,  and  was  about  ready  to 
set  out,  but  then  an  event  occurred  which  frustrated 
her  plans,  and  threw  upon  her  meek  shoulders  a 
heavier  load  than  any  which  even  they  had  yet  been 
strengthened  to  bear. 

Towards  the  close  of  a  beautiful  day  late  in  July, 
the  clattering  of  hoofs  was  heard  in  the  court-yard 
of  the  old  mansion,  and,  going  hastily  to  the  wm- 
dows,  old  Katy  and  her  companions  saw  a  score  or 
more  of  cavalrymen,  in  great  slouched  hats,  and  blue 
uniforms,  dismounting  near  the  doorway. 

"  Hurrah ! "  shouted  James,  as  he  caught  sight  of 
the  glorious  color  which  drapes  the  sky  in  beauty. 


38  The  Young  Virginian. 

and  lends  the  hue  of  heaven  to  even  the  wretched 
stuff  made  by  the  shoddy  mills ;  "  they  are  our  own 
men,  —  Ohio  boys  !     Hurrah  !  " 

"  No,  honey,"  said  old  Katy,  dejectedly,  after  a 
long  pause,  and  a  long  look  at  the  strange  soldiery, 
"dey  'm  Mosby's  men!  Run,  Robby,  —  ter  the  corn- 
crib  !  Run  !  Dey  'm  arter  you  !  Hide  away  in  de 
loft  till  dey  'm  gone !  Granny  '11  fotch  you  suffin' 
ter  eat.     Ef  she  can't,  —  lib  on  de  corn  !     Run  !  " 

"Blood,"  it  is  said,  "is  thicker  than  water";  and, 
in  her  anxiety  for  the  last  of  her  kin,  old  Katy  may 
have  forgotten  the  danger  to  the  friendless  Union 
lad  at  her  side ;  and  who  can  blame  her  if  she  did 
forget  it?  What  had  she  ever  received  from  any  of 
his  race,  that  should  make  her  in  such  a  moment 
think  of  him  ? 

Robby  darted  away,  but  not  a  second  too  soon ; 
for  as  he  disappeared  from  the  room,  the  library  door 
swung  open,  and  a  dozen  tall,  bearded  men,  in  rusty 
regimentals  and  mud-incrusted  cavalry-boots,  with 
great  spurs  jangling  at  their  heels,  and  heavy  sword- 
blades  clanking  on  the  floor  at  their  every  step,  en- 
tered the  room. 

Quarters  and  supper ;  quick,  old  woman  ! "  cried 
the  leader,  throwing  himself  into  a  chair,  and  toss- 
ing his  hat  upon  the  centre-table.  "  We  're  almost 
starved." 


P  lis  oners.  39 

"  AVe  'se  nuffin',  —  nuffin'  fur  sich  gemmen  ^as  you 
is,"  said  old  Katy,  with  something  of  an  emphasis 
on  the  last  words. 

"You  lie,  you  black  Venus.  Get  us  supper  at 
once,  or  we  '11  make  a  meal  of  you  f'  said  the  cav- 
alryman, striking  his  sword  a  heavy  blow  on  the 
floor. 

With  no  manifestation  of  alarm  the  old  woman 
quietly  said  there  was  nothing  in  the  house  except 
a  little  corn  and  a  little  jerked  beef;  but  if  the 
trooper's  delicate  palate  could  relish  such  viands, 
he  was  welcome  to  them.  With  a  loud  oath  he 
cried  out,  "  Hurry  it  up,  hurry  it  up  ;  any  fare  will 
do  for  starving  men." 

James  meanwhile  had  slunk  away  into  his  little 
room,  where  he  hoped  to  remain  unobserved ;  but 
when  the  meal  was  about  over,  he  heard  the  voice 
of  the  leader  calling  out :  "  Where  is  the  little  fel- 
low in  blue?     Bring  him  out,  I  want  to  see  him." 

Old  Katy  g^ve  no  answer ;  but,  knowing  con- 
cealment ^o  be  impossible,  James  stepped  boldly 
forward,  and  said  :  "  I  am  here,  sir." 

"You  are  not  Major  Lucy's  son,  —  who  are  you?" 
asked  the  trooper. 

"  I  'm  an  Ohio  boy,  sir,"  replied  James,  coolly 
but  respectfully. 


40  *    The  Youn^  VirH?naft. 


i>    '  "'^> 


"An  Ohio  boy!"  shouted  the  officer,  bringing 
his  hand  down  heavily  upon  the  table.  "A  young 
Yankee  whelp  ? " 

"I  am  a  Yankee,  sir,  —  not  a  whelp.  In  Ohio 
we  think  none  are  dogs  but  traitors,"  answered  the 
lad,  the  angr)^  blood  mounting  to  his  face,  and  his 
voice  -ringing  out  clear  and  strong  as  the  notes  of  a 
bugle. 

Amazed  by  the  boldness  of  the  boy,  the  trooper 
dropped  his  fork,  and  said,  in  a  milder  tone  :  "  You 
're  an  impudent  young  devil.  But  —  do  you  know 
what  we  do  with  Yankee  boys  out  here  ? " 

"Yes,  sir.  Some  you  shoot  down  from  behind 
fences,  —  some  you  hang  after  they  surrender;  but 
you  never  whip  us  in  a  fair  fight,  unless  you  are  two 
to  our  one." 

Springing  to  his  feet  and  grasping  the  boy  by  the 
arm,  the  trooper  pulled  him  upon  his  knee,  saying 
as  he  did  so  :  "  You  're  the  bravest  little  fellow  I 
ever  knew.  You  're  worth  any  two  men  in  my  com- 
pany.    You  must  enlist  with  me."  ^ 

"  'List  wid  you,  Cap'n  Thompson  !  "  cried  old  Katy, 
who  Jiad  listened  with  breathless  interest  to  the  con- 
versation. "  And  you  had  a  mudder,  Cap'n,  and 
you  wus  a  litde  boy  onct  jess  like  him  !  'List  wid 
youl  " 


Prisoners.  4 1 

"  And  why  not,  Aunty  ? "  said  the  Captain,  ap- 
parently surprised  at  the  old  woman's  recognition. 
"  If  I  had  a  regiment  of  such  boys,  I  'd  drive 
Grant  into  the   Potomac. 

"  But  you  can  t  mean  to  tuck  him,  Cap'n  !  He 
hab  a  mudder,  —  a  pore,  lone  mudder,  and  he'm  jess 
agwine  ter  har,  Cap'n, — jess  agwine  ter  har,  and 
she  'm  jess  a  spectin'  him,  case  he  hab  jess  wrote 
ter  her.  I  'se  been  a  nussin'  him  all  o'  dis  time 
fur  dat,  —  eber  sence  de  big  battle,  when  he  was 
hurted  so  bad  ;  you  can't  mean  ter  tuck  him  wid 
you,  Cap'n,  —  you  can't  mean  dat !  " 

"  I  do  mean  that,  so  you  shut  up,  old  woman, 
and  bring  in  some  blankets  for  the  men.  The  boy 
and  I  will  sleep  in  this  bed." 

Remonstrance  and  entreaty,  she  saw,  would  be 
alike  unavailing,  and,  with  a  hea\'y  heart,  old  Katy  set 
about  preparing  quarters  for  the  soldiers.  Two  of 
them  were  to  mount  guard  in  the  court-yard  ;  half 
a  dozen  to  "  camp  out"  in  the  barns  ;  and  the  remain- 
der to  sleep  on  the  floor  in  the  library.  This  dis- 
position of  his  men  the  officer  preferred  to  their 
distribution  in  the  beds  about  the  house,  because 
it  would  enable  them  to  act  together  in  case  of 
attack ;  and  of  that  there  was  some  danger,  for 
even    at    that    distance    from    Grant's    army,    small 


42  The  Young  Vh'ginian. 

parties  of  Union  troops  occasionally  appeared  in 
pursuit  of  forage  or  the  numerous  bands  of  gue- 
rillas that  hung  about  our  lines  of  communication. 

The  men,  in  ransacking  the  house,  having  come 
upon  some  bottles  of  whiskey,  a  huge  tankard  of 
hot  punch  was  soon  steaming  on  the  centre-table, 
and  then  began  a  scene  of  wild  debauch  such  as 
James,  in  his  short  experience  of  camp  life,  had 
never  witnessed.  In  the  midst  of  it,  the  sergeant 
of  the  squad  and  another  soldier  entered  the  room, 
bearing  between  them  a  huge  sack,  which  kicked 
and  struggled  as  if  it  held  a  young  alligator.  Toss- 
ing it  lightly  upon  a  lounge  in  the  corner,  the  Ser- 
geant said  to  the  Captain,  "  I  say,  Cap'n,  I  say,  what 
ar'  the  value  uv  corn  in  the  cob?" 

"  About  twice  what  you  '11  get  for  it,"  answered 
the  Captain,  without  turning  round.  "  I  tell  you 
again,  if  you  touch  anything  of  the  Major's  except 
his  w^hiskey,  I  '11  break  your  heads." 

"But  this  ar'  whiskey,  —  the  sort  thet's  good  ter 
take,"  replied  the  Sergeant,  laughing,  and  giving  the 
bag  a  gentle  kick. 

There  was  a  slight  movement  among  the  corn,  and 
a  low,  stifled  scream  from  old  Katy,  as  the  Captain 
grasped  the  bag  by  the  neck,  and  drew  Robby  out 
upon  the  floor,  his  black  hair   powdered  with  flour, 


Prisoners.  43 

and  his  olive  complexion  whiter  than  that  of  the 
ghost  in  Hamlet.  But  his  face  was  not  white  with 
fear.  His  black  eyes  glowered  on  the  Captain  with 
the  look  of  a  wild  beast  about  to  spring  on  its  prey. 
All  the  fierce  passions  of  his  race  seemed  to  be  awake 
within  him.  Perhaps  he  saw  again  the  deadly  rice- 
swamp,  perhaps  felt  again  the  terrible  lashes  ;  and 
would  rather  die  than  go  back,— but  would  die 
wreaking  vengeance  on  his  enemies.  This  may  or 
may  not  have  been  the  cause  of  his  emotion  ;  but 
some  terrible  passion  flashed  from  his  eyes,  and 
glowed  on  his  every  feature.  The  Captain  saw  it, 
for  he  shouted  as  he  caught  the  glance  of  the  boy, 
«  Bracelets,  bracelets  here  for  this  young  hyena  1 " 

It  took  the  united  strength  of  two  men  to  hand- 
cuff the  boy  ;  but  when  he  was  finally  secured,  the 
Captain  said,  in  a  tone  of  more  respect  than  he  was 
accustomed  to  show  to  slave  people  :  "  Well,  my 
young  cub,  who  are  you?" 

The  boy  gave  him  a  defiant  look,  but  made  no 
answer ;  old  Katy,  however,  who  all  this  while  had 
stood  by,  apparently  stupified  by  the  great  calamity 
which  had  befallen  her,  cried  out,  falling  at  his  feet, 
and  clasping  his  knees  :  — 

"  He  'm  my  chile,  Cap'n,  —  Massa  Robby's  chile, 
—  poor  Hannah's  chile,  —  dat  you  bought  away  from 


44  The  Young  Virgifiian. 

young  Massa,  so  many  years  ago !  O,  doan't  you 
tuck  him,  Cap'n  ;  doan't  you, — he 'm  all  I'm  got, 
all  I'm  got." 

The  words  came  thick  and  husky  ;  they  seemed 
to  wellnigh  strangle  the  old  woman ;  and,  bending 
down,  she  wept  convulsively. 

She  may  have  touched  some  painful  chord  in  the 
Captain's  memory,  or  his  frequent  potations  may 
have  mellowed  his  nature ;  whichever  it  was,  his 
voice  had  a  strange  softness  as  he  said,  "  I  might 
have  known  it !  He  has  her  face,  and  her  eye,  — 
and  what  an  eye  !  "  • 

"  O,  save  him,  Cap'n.  Doan't  you  tuck  him  away, 
he  'm  all  I  'm  got !  "  again  cried  the  old  negress,  en- 
couraged by  the  altered  tone  of  the  trooper. 

"  Who  does  he  belong  to  ? "  he  asked,  lifting  her 
somewhat  tenderly  from  the  floor. 

"Not  ter  massa,  —  massa  sole  him  down  ter  Georg}^, 
ter  de  rice-swamps  ;  but  he  'm  got  away,  and  O  Cap'n  ! 
doan't  you,  doan't  you  leff  dem  tote  him  dar  agin  ! " 

"  Sold  him  to  the  rice-swarmps  !  His  own  blood  ; 
and  he  a  white  man  1 "  said  the  trooper.  Turning 
then  to  his  men,  he  added,  "  Boys,  he  has  no  owner 
—  that  we  know  of,  so  he  belongs  to  us.  What 
will  you  take  for  your  share  of  him  ? " 

"  We  doan't  know,  Cap'n,"  answered  the  Sergeant, 


Prisoners.  45 

who  had  captured  the  corn,  "  Nigs  is  sca'ce  ;  we  hain't 
kotched  'nuft'  o'  late  ter  pay  fur  the  drinks ;  and  he  's 
a  loikely  boy.     I  reckon  he  '"s  wuth  two  thousand." 

"  Two  thousand  !  He  is  n't  worth  two  hundred. 
He  has  legs  and  knows  it." 

"  I  reckon  ! "  said  the  Sergeant,  laughing ;  "  an* 
bein  's  he 's  got  legs,  an'  ye  wants  him,  we  '11  say 
fifteen  hundred." 

The  Captain  turned  away,  with  an  angry  gesture, 
and  then  said  to  old  Katy  in  a  low  tone,  "  I  have  n't 
so  much  money  in  the  world.  I  can't  help  you, 
Aunty." 

"  O,  you  kin,  Cap'n ! "  she  cried,  sinking  again 
to  the  floor.  "  You  's  only  ter  say  de  word,  —  dey 
muss  mine  you.  O,  say  it,  Cap'n,  —  say  it !  and 
de  Lord  will  bress  you." 

"  I  can't,  —  only  the  Colonel  can  say  it  I'll  make 
him,  if  I  can." 

"You  can't,  Cap'n.  You  hain't  de  chile's  mud- 
der !  O,  lefif  me  gwo  ter  de  Cunnel !  He  '11  do 
it,  ef  /  ax  him." 

"  He  'd  only  laugh  at  you,  Aunty.  If  /can't  make 
him,  nobody  can.  I  '11  try."  Resuming  then  his 
usual  manner,  he  added,  "Now,  go.  We  want  to 
turn  in." 

As  old  Katy  left  the  room,  the  trooper  filled  a  glass 


46  The  Young  Virginian. 

brimming  full  with  the  punch,  and  gulping  it  down 
with  an  unsteady  hand,  turned  to  the  slave  boy,  who 
all  this  while  had  looked  on,  an  apparently  indiffer- 
ent spectator  of  the  scene.  Scanning  him  for  a 
moment  from  head  to  foot,  he  said  :  — 

"  I  don't  like  to  see  your  mother's  son  tied  in  that 
fashion.  She  was  the  truest  woman  that  ever  lived. 
Her  word  given,  she  would  have  died  sooner  than 
break  it.  Will  you  get  away,  if  I  take  off  the  brace- 
lets.?" 

"  No,  not  to  night,"  answered  the  boy. 

"Some  of  you,  take  them  off,"  said  the  Captain. 
"Now,  men,  turn  in";  —  and  soon  all  in  the  room  were 
locked  in  that  deep  slumber  which,  like  the  blessed 
rain,  falls  on  the  just  and  the  unjust, — all  but  the 
slave  boy.  He  lay  awake  revolving  plans  which 
many  of  his  race,  maddened  by  wrongs  like  his,  have, 
ere  now,  wrought  out  into  action. 


The  House  in  the   Woods.  47 

CHAPTER    IV. 

THE    HOUSE    IN    THE    WOODS. 

I  SHALL  not  attempt  to  describe  the  parting  be- 
tween the  slave  boy  and  his  grandmother  on 
the  following  morning.  Seated  on  the  doorstep  of 
the  mansion,  her  hands  clasped  across  her  knees, 
her  eyes  streaming  with  tears,  the  aged  negress  gazed 
after  the  departing  rangers  as  they  wound  slowly 
down  the  road,  as  if  her  last  earthly  hope  was  going 
with  them.  But  one  of  them  lingered  behind,  and 
now  approached  her.     It  was  the  Captain. 

*'  Don't  feel  so  badly,  Aunty,"  he  said.  "  I  loved 
that  boy's  mother:  I  caused  her  death;  but  I 
loved  her  as  if  she  had  been  my  wife.  I  will  do 
all  I  can  to  get  him  free." 

Old  Katy  turned  her  eyes  to  his  face;  and  then 
said  :  "  De  Lord  yeres  you,  Cap'n  Thompson  !  As 
you  'spect  mercy  in  de  great  day,  keep  you'  word  ! " 

"  I  will.      Let  God  deal  with  me  as  I   deal  with 

him." 

Instinctively  he  uncovered  his  head  as  he  said 
this,  and  then,  putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  rode  rap- 
idly after  his  men. 


48  The  Young  Virginian. 

The  road  taken  by  the  rangers  was  at  first  a  mere 
bridle-path,  which  picked  its  tangled  way  over  rocks 
and  stumps  at  the  back  of  the  mansion,  but  soon 
emerged  into  a  broad  thoroughfare,  winding  along 
over  high  hills  and  level  plains  dotted  here  and  there 
with  blossoming  orchards,  pleasant  mansions,  and 
little  clusters  of  negro-houses,  and  covered  every- 
where with  waving  fields  of  wheat  and  corn,  all  clad 
in  the  beautiful  garments  of  summer.  Beyond  this 
open  country  were  dense  forests  and  rocky  heights ; 
and  far  away  to  the  westward  the  landscape  faded 
into  long  mountain  ranges,  on  which  the  clouds, 
not  yet  aroused  from  their  morning  nap,  were  sleep- 
ing peacefully  in  the  sun. 

Pausing  on  the  summit  of  one  of  the  nearest 
hills,  the  Captain  halted  his  troop,  and,  drawing  out 
a  field-glass,  took  a  long  survey  of  the  horizon. 
Turning  then  to  one  of  his  men,  he  said,  "Are 
you  sure  we  're  on  the  right  road  ? " 

"  Shore,  Cap'n,"  answered  the  man.  "  Clap  yer 
eye  ter  the  glass  ag'in,  and  look  over  yon  patch  o' 
timber.  Look  sharp,  and  ye  '11  see  the  sign  :  '  Hos- 
ses  shod,  and  cattle  farrid,  by  Miles  Holley,  vet- 
eran surgeon.' " 

"Your  eyes  are  good!"  rejoined  Thompson,  "per- 
haps you  can  see  the  camp." 


TJic  House  iti  the   Woods.  49 

"P'raps  I  mought,  with  ycr  glass,"  answered  the 
man,  dryly. 

The  Captain  handed  him  the  instrument,  and  the 
other  took  a  long  sweep  with  it  to  the  westward. 
"Do  you  see  it?"   asked  the  trooper,  after  a  while. 

"See  it!  In  course  I  does,  —  with  one  o'  these 
things  I  could  see  the  man  in  the  moon.  Clap  yer 
own  eye  to  't  onct  more,  Cap'n,  and  look  squar  inter 
that  cloud  ag'in  the  sky,  and  tell  me  ef  ye  don't  see 
the  Gunnel's  tent,  all  dressed  out  in  pine  sprigs  and 
laurel  leaves,  like  a  meetin'-house  at  Christmas ;  and 
I  reckon  it  mought  pass  fur  a  meetin'-house  toll'able 
easy,  fur  a  serious-minded  man  could  yere  more 
Scriptur'  thar  nur  anywhar  in  creation." 

"  It  is  a  saintly  place,"  rejoined  the  Captain,  laugh- 
ing, and  beginning  to  realize  that  the  man  was  play- 
ing upon  him ;  "  but  I  don't  see  it.  How  far  away 
may  it  be?" 

"Twenty-five  miles  as  the  crow  flies,  —  thirty  by 
the  road  we  've  got  to  travel." 

"Well,  your  eyes  are  good!  Perhaps  you  can 
see  the  Colonel  himself." 

"P'raps  I  mought,  —  let  me  try  ag'in,"  answered 
the  man. 

The  Captain  again  gave  him  the  instrument,  and, 
imitating  his  gesture,  the  man  swept  it  along  the 
3  '> 


50  The  Young  Virginian. 

horizon,  looking  first  in  the  direction  of  the  camp, 
but  letting  it  rest  much  longer  over  the  blacksmith's 
shop. 

"Do  you  see  him?"  asked  the  officer. 

"  See  him ! "  echoed  the  other,  removing  the  glass 
from  his  eye ;  "  ye  mought  as  well  s'pect  ter  see  a 
honest  man  in  a  bushwhacker's  boots,  as  the  Gun- 
nel in  sech  a  fixin'  as  this  ar'.  My  eyes  did  n't  cost 
half  so  much  as  the  blasted  thing,  but  I  would  n't 
swop  'em  for  forty  on.  it." 

"How  far  away  is  the  blacksmith's?" 

"  It  mought  be  six  mile  over  the  tree-tops,  —  it  'r 
eight  as  the  road  runs.     Ye  'd  better  make  it  fifty." 

"  Why  fifty  ?  " 

"  To  git  thar  arter  dark.  Old  foxes  don't  sleep 
in  the  daytime." 

"  But  I  reckon  twenty  men  can  take  him,  if  he 
does  happen  to  be  awake." 

"Not  if  he  eyes  ye  a-comin'.  Ye  'd  better  halt 
till  sundown.  He  moughtent  see  ye  arter  dark,  for 
he  hain't  no  glass  like  yourn." 

There  was  good  sense  in  the  counsel  of  the  sol- 
dier;  and,  directing  him  to  lead  the  way  to  a  se- 
cluded camping-ground,  the  Captain  turned  his  horse, 
and  followed  him  into  a  narrow  opening  in  the 
timber. 


The  House  in  the   Woods.  51 

The  guide  was  a  young  man,  apparently  not  more 
than  twenty,  and,  though  wearing,  Hke  the  others, 
the  uniform  of  a  priv-ate  soldier,  had  a  look  of  su- 
perior intelligence.  The  badinage  he  had  used  in 
addressing  the  Captain  was  evidently  assumed ;  for 
beneath  his  careless  exterior  there  was  an  earnest- 
ness almost  amounting  to  anxiety,  which  would  not 
have  escaped  the  notice  of  a  close  observer.  But 
the  Captain  was  absorbed  in  memories  awakened 
by  the  capture  of  the  slave  boy,  and  this  circum- 
stance escaped  his  attention. 

They  had  entered  a  narrow  bridle-path,  when,  sud- 
denly clapping  spurs  to  his  horse,  the  guide  rode 
rapidly  forward.  He  was  fast  disappearing  among 
the  trees,  when  the  officer  shouted,  in  a  voice  that 
made  the  woods  ring  :  "  Halt !  halt !  or  I  '11  put 
a  bullet  through  you ! "  The  man  was  not  out  of 
range,  and,  drawing  up  his  horse,  he  waited  until 
the  Captain  came  up  with  him. 

"  You  ride  as  if  you  meant  to  get  somewhere  before 
sundown,"  said  the  Captain.  "  Let  me  tell  you, 
my  man,  to  mind,  or  you  '11  have  an  ounce  of  cold 
lead  for  dinner." 

"Ye  allers  ride  at  that  gait,"  answered  the  man, 
sulkily.  "Ye  kin  go  as  slow  as  ye  loikes  when  ye 
gits  to  the  camp-ground." 


52  The  Yoiuig  Virginian. 

"And  where  may  that  be?" 

"  Wharsomever  ye  loikes, — right  in  the  high-road, — 
thar  's  no  use  layin'  low  ef  ye  hollers  in  that  fashion." 

"Come,  my  fine  fellow,  keep  a  civil  tongue  in 
your  head,"  said  the  Captain,  tapping  the  handle 
of  his  pistol.  "  I  've  not  known  you  long  enough 
to  trust  you  far  out  of  sight." 

"  When  ye  know  me  better,  ye  '11  lam  I  'm  as 
good  a  Reb  as  ye  is.  I  stand  by  my  State  and  my 
friends  —  ter  the  death,"  answered  the  man,  looking 
the  officer  squarely  in  the  face. 

"  Well ;  I  reckon  you  're  all  right.  I  know  you 
volunteered ;  and  that  ought  to  be  proof  of  it.  But 
where  do  you  propose  to  take  us?" 

"About  the  half  o'  three  miles  inter  the  timber. 
The  nags  '11  want  water,  and  thar's  a  spring  thar," 
said  the  man.  "  It 's  a  clarin' ;  with  a  'ooman,  and 
a  short  dozen  o'  tow-head  chillen ;  but  I  reckon  they 
won't  do  us  no  hurt,  if  we  keeps  an  eye  on  'em." 

"You  seem  to  know  this  region,"  responded  the 
Captain. 

"  I  orter,"  said  the  man,  "  I  use'  ter  work  along 
o'  old  Miles.  I  reckon  thet  's  how  the  Cunnel  come 
ter  send  me  ter  guide  ye." 

"  O  yes  !  I  see,"  said  the  trooper ;  "  well,  push  on." 

The  soldier  led  the  way  at  a  slower  pace,  and  in  a 


The  House  in  the   U^oods.  53 

short  half-hour  they  were  at  the  clearing.  It  was  a 
half-dozen  acres  of  unfenced  land,  planted  in  corn 
and  potatoes,  and  surrounded  by  a  dense  forest  of 
oak,  pine,  and  hickory,  among  which  a  thick  under- 
brush was  growing.  In  the  centre  of  the  opening, 
and  about  two  hundred  yards  from  the  narrow  bridle- 
path, by  which  the  troop  had  come,  was  a  small  cabin 
of  half-decayed  logs,  with  a  clay  chimney,  going  up 
on  the  outside  ;  and  a  plank  roof,  made  tight  by  a 
coating  of  pine  leaves,  held  down  by  rope-strands 
interlaced  between  the  timbers.  A  small  rivulet,  fed 
by  the  spring  of  which  the  guide  had  spoken,  and  a 
freckled-faced  woman  and  four  or  five  wretched  look- 
ing children,  seemed  the  only  moving  things  about 
the  premises ;  but  James  thought  he  saw,  as  they 
approached,  a  suit  of  brownish  butternuts  gliding 
away  among  the  underbrush.  The  woman,  who  was 
clad  in  a  gown  of  worn  homespun,  and  the  children, 
who  were  scarcely  clad  at  all,  were  hoeing  among  the 
corn  and  potatoes.  They  must  have  heard  the  tramp 
of  the  horses  before  the  troopers  emerged  from  the 
forest ;  but  they  scarcely  looked  up  until  the  Captain 
said  in  a  free,  cordial  way,  "  My  good  woman,  we 
have  stopped  to  rid  you  of  some  of  your  waste  water ; 
you  seem  to  have  a  plenty  of  it." 

"  Ye  's  welcome  ter  it,"  answered  the  woman,  paus- 


54  The  Yoiiiig  Virginian. 

ing  in  her  work,  and  turning  to  the  officer.  Her  dull, 
stolid  face  brightened  up  at  the  sight  of  his  uniform ; 
and  she  added,  in  a  more  hearty,  assured  tone, 
"  Ye 's  very  welcome,  —  welcome  ter  all  we  has  ;  it 
hain't  much,  but  I  loikes  yer  colors. 

"  That  shows  you  're  a  woman  of  sense,"  replied  the 
trooper,  jocosely ;  "  but  we  '11  rob  you  of  nothing  but 
a  little  water  for  our  horses,  and  a  little  fire  for  our 
dinners.  Those  seem  about  the  only  things  you  have 
to  spare." 

"  We  is  pore,  sir ;  but  pore  folks  hain't  no  showin' 
in  this  kentr)'.  I  yere  they  has  in  yourn,"  responded 
the  woman,  mistaking  the  stolen  blue  of  the  Rebels 
for  the  true  blue  of  the  Yankees. 

"  O  yes,"  said  the  Captain,  keeping  up  the  decep- 
tion. "  We  give  ever}-  poor  couple  a  farm  and  a 
feather-bed ;  and  every  second  boy  has  a  chance  to 
be  President." 

"  I  never  yered  o'  thet,"  answered  the  woman, 
with  an  incredulous  smile.  "  Ef  it  'r  so,  't  would  do 
fur  us  ter  live  thar,  for  we  hes  five,  sayin'  nothin' 
uv  John  ;  and  he  's  the  biggest  boy  among  'em." 

"  And  John  is  your  husband  t  Is  he  in  the  Union 
army  ? " 

"  No ;  he  war  com  scripted  by  the  Rebs,  but  he 
got   away.     They   kotched   him,  and   come  nigh  ter 


TJic  House  in  tJic    Woods.  55 

a-hangin'  on  him  ;  but,  finarly,  as  they  wanted  men, 
they  let  him  off  with  a  brandin'.  They  did  n't  make 
much  out  o'  thet,  for  he 's  away  ag'in  ;  but  they 
won't   kotch  him  this  time,  —  he'll  die  fust." 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?  "  asked  the  officer,  in  a  quick, 
changed  voice. 

"I  —  doan't  know  —  not  exactly — but  he  hain't 
more  'n  a  hundred  mile   from  yere." 

"  Don't  he  help  you  about  the  place  ?  You  can't 
have  planted  and  hoed  all  this  corn." 

"  No.  I  hain't ;  the  chillen  has  holped  some ; 
and  John,  too,  when  thar  war  n't  no  goorillas  round. 
When  thar  was  he  's  laid  out  in  the  timber." 

"  And  he  's  in  the  timber  now } "  asked  the  Captain, 
with  increasing  interest. 

The  woman  was  about  to  answer,  when  she  caught 
a  glance  of  the  guide,  which  forced  her  words  back 
unspoken.  The  latter  had  gone  with  the  rest  of  the 
troop  to  the  spring  to  water  the  horses ;  and  now, 
returning  dismounted,  said  to  the  officer,  "  Hain't  ye 
a-gwine  ter  post  pickets,  Cap'n?"  The  Yankees 
mought  come  onter  us." 

With  a  great  oath  the  Captain  cried  out  in  a  rage  : 
"  A  moment  more,  and  I  'd  have  had  this  woman's 
husband.     He  's  an  infernal  traitor." 

The  guide  made  no  reply ;  but  the  woman  said,  in 


$6  The  Young  Virgifiian. 

a  tone  of  keen,  cutting  scorn,  "  He  's  nary  traitor,  — 
he 's  a  honest  man,  —  but  I  reckon  them  as  gits  inter 
a  false  coat  ter  trap  pore  wimmin  ter  betray  thar  hus- 
bands, ar  wus  nur  traitors,  —  they's  mean  'nuff  ter 
trade  in  niggers." 

Without  answering  a  word  the  Captain  rode  off 
towards  the  spring. 

James  and  Robert  had  ridden  from  the  mansion 
behind  two  of  the  troopers,  and,  dismounting  when 
the  cavalcade  first  halted,  had  stood  near  the  Cap- 
tain during  the  whole  of  this  interview.  They  were 
following  him  towards  the  spring,  when  they  heard 
the  woman  say  to  the  guide  :  "  So,  this  ar  what  yer 
state-rights  has  brung  ye  ter  —  a  murderin'  honest 
folks  in  the  does  o'  yer  kentry ! " 

"No  hard  words,  Ruth,"  answered  the  guide; 
"I'm  doin'  what  I  think 's  right;  John  hain't  doin' 
no  more.  But,  I  've  jest  done  ye  a  good  turn,  and 
I  wants  ye  ter  do  me  another." 

""WTiat  ar  it?"  asked  the  woman,  in  a  softened 
tone,  her  face  brightening.  "  I  '11  do  ye  arythin'  I 
kin."  4 

"We're  arter  old  Miles,  —  we'll  be  thar  by  sun- 
down, —  he  must  know  we  're  a  comin'." 

"  I  understand,  —  John  '11  do  it,  —  God  bless  ye, 
Jake  !     Ye  hain't  half  so  bad  as  I  thort  ye." 


The  House  in  the   Woods.  57 

The  last  words  were  spoken  in  low,  guarded  tones  ; 
but  the  keen  ear  of  the  slave  boy  caught  them  dis- 
tinctly, as  with  James  he  walked  on  towards  the 
spring.  The  troopers  had  removed  their  animals  to 
the  shade  of  the  wood  ;  and  the  Captain  was  watering 
his  horse  alone  at  the  little  rivulet  when  the  two 
prisoners  approached  him.  "  What  did  they  say  to 
each  other?"  he  asked  them, 

"  She  taunted  him  with  fighting  against  his  coun- 
try," answered  James,  looking  the  Rebel  steadily  in 
the  face. 

"  Is  that  all  ? "  asked  the  Captain  ;  who  more  than 
half  suspected  that  the  guide's  suggestion  about  the 
pickets  was  intended  to  give  warning  to  the   woman. 

"All  that  I  heard,"  replied  the  boy,  and  he  spoke 
truly  ;  but  Robert  had  already  told  him  the  remain- 
der. 

"  Did  you  hear  anything  more  ? "  asked  the  trooper, 
turning  to  Robert. 

"  If  I  did,  I  should  not  tell  you^^'  answered  the 
slave  boy,  his  lip  trembling  with  some  strange  emo- 
tion. 

The  trooper's  face  flushed ;  but  he  said,  coolly, 
"Be  careful,  boy.  I  promised  your  grandmother  to 
stand  by  you,  and  I  shall.  But  do  not  anger  me. 
I  am  your  best  friend." 


58  The  Young  Virginian. 

"  My  friend  !  "  cried  Robert,  his  lip  now  quivering 
as  you  have  seen  the  magnetic  needle  when  over- 
shadowed by  a  thunder-cloud.  "  You  killed  my 
mother !  " 

The  trooper's  face  grew  suddenly  pale,  and  in 
broken  words  he  said :  "  What  do  you  know  about 
your  mother?" 

"  I  know  you  owned  her,  and  stole  away  her  chil- 
dren as  fast  as  they  were  born  ;  and  when  she  began 
to  love  the  little  good  that  is  in  you,  you  broke 
her  heart  by  selling  her  to  a  wretched  trader,  to  be 
—  you  know  what.  I  knew  all  this  the  moment  I 
saw  your  face,  Robert  Thompson ! " 

Some  remorseful  memories  must  have  crowded  on 
the  trooper's  brain ;  for  he  grew  even  paler,  and  his 
lip  twitched  convulsively,  as  he  said :  "  I  did  her 
wrong;  I  would  undo  what  I  can  of  it  by  befriend- 
ing you." 

Robert  m.ade  a  step  or  two  forward,  and  his  face 
took  on  a  fierce  look,  as  he  answered  :  "  You  can't 
undo  it.  I  'd  take  nothing  at  your  hands,  but  — 
your  life.  That  I  'd  have  now,  if  I  had  a  weap- 
on!" 

These  words,  spoken  in  a  tone  which  sent  a  shiver 
through  the  white  boy,  seemed  to  recall  the  trooper 
to   himself      With   more   of  his    usual    manner,    he 


The  House  in  the   Woods.  59 

said :  "  Boy,  to-night,  when  we  are  at  the  black- 
smith's, you  slip  away;  and  —  never  let  me  see  you 
again," 

"  I  shall  go  when  I  can  ;  but  not  at  your  bidding," 
answered  Robert,  turning  on  his  heel,  and  walking 
away  as  if  he  were  playing  a  part  in  some  blood 
and  thunder  drama. 

The  Captain  made  no  reply  ;  but  as  James  turned 
to  follow  the  slave  boy,  he  said  to  him  :  "  My  boy, 
say  nothing  of  this,  and  to-night  get  him  away ;  you 
may  go  yourself,  if  you  will." 

"  I  will  tr)'  to,  sir,"  answered  James. 

As  they  went  on  towards  the  edge  of  the  woods, 
the  Captain  suddenly  laid  his  hand  on  the  boy's 
shoulder,  and,  fixing  on  him  a  strange  look,  said  : 
"  /  was  once  just  such  a  brave,  innocent  boy  as 
you  are." 

"  And  what  made  you  do  wrong  ? "  asked  the  boy, 
looking  up  in  the  man's  face. 

"Drink,  —  cursed  drink.  If  I'd  been  sober,  I'd 
never  have  sold  his  mother." 

"  But  you  sold  the  children  ? "  said  James,  in  a 
hesitating  way. 

"  No,  no,  I  did  not !  I  sent  them  North,  gave 
them  all  I  had  ;  and  that  made  me  too  poor  to  buy 
her  back." 


6o  The  Yoimg  Virginian. 

"  I  'm  sorry,  very  sorry,"  said  the  boy.  "  I  hope 
you  '11  not  always  feel  so  badly  as  you  do  now." 

For  a  moment  a  look  of  pain  came  on  the  troop- 
er's face  ;  it  was  gone  soon,  and  then  he  said,  in  his 
usual  way,  "Let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  Get 
him  away  to-night,  —  don't  fail." 


The  Captains  Story.  6i 

CHAPTER    V. 

THE    captain's    STORY. 

PICKETS  being  stationed  up  and  down  the  road 
to  guard  against  surprise,  the  troopers  gathered 
in  little  knots  among  the  trees,  and  whiled  the  time 
away  in  card-playing,  quoit-pitching,  and  other  equally 
elevating  and  useful  employments.  Robert  sat  in 
the  midst  of  one  of  the  groups,  looking  vacantly  on 
at  the  players ;  and  the  Captain  walked  apart,  seem- 
ingly unconscious  of  what  was  passing  around  him. 

He  was  a  man  of  about  forty,  above  the  medium 
height,  with  a  closely  knit,  sinewy  frame,  an  erect, 
easy  carriage,  and  the  air  of  one  accustomed  to  a 
life  much  above  the  one  he  was  living.  His  face 
was  deeply  furrowed  with  dissipation,  and  his  hair 
thickly  streaked  with  gray ;  but  his  large,  roving  eye 
was  what  held  the  attention  of  the  white  boy,  who 
sat  near  by  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree.  It 
moved  about  with  a  restless,  uneasy  motion,— now 
sinking  back  into  itself,  like  an  expiring  flame,  and 
now  blazing  up,  as  you  have  seen  a  black  coal 
when  fanned  by  the  wind.     Some  dark  history,  writ- 


62  The  Young  Virginian. 

ten  on  the  man's  soul,  was  flashing  out  in  the 
changing  Hght  of  his  eyes,  —  teUing  the  boy  that 
"they  who  sow  the  wind  shall  reap  the  whirlwind," 
— they  who  commit  crime  shall  feel  retribution. 

For  a  full  hour  the  man  walked  thus,  in  silence  j 
then  he  came  and  sat  down  by  the  boy,  on  the  trunk 
of  the  fallen  tree.  After  a  while  he  said  :  "  Have 
you  a  mother,  boy  ? " 

"  Yes,"  answered  James,  "  at  home  in  Ohio." 

"  And  is  she  like  you  ?  " 

"  They  say  she  is ;  only  she  's  a  great  deal  better 
than  I  am." 

"  Better  ?  If  I  had  only  had  a  mother,  I  might 
have  been  the  man  you  will  be." 

"  And  did  n't  you  have  one  ? "  asked  James. 

"No.  She  died  when  I  was  born.  I  lost  my 
father,  too,  before  I  can  remember.  He  left  me 
very  rich,  with  a  large  plantation,  and  a  great  many 
slaves.  The  slaves  pampered  and  petted  me ;  and 
I  had  all  the  money  I  could  spend.  No  one  checked 
or  guided  me ;  and  so  I  grew  up  wayward,  head- 
strong, and  dissipated.  I  was  expelled  from  college 
when  I  was  twenty,  and  then  plunged  into  debauch- 
ery. Before  I  was  thirty  I  had  squandered  all  T 
had;  and  then  I  took  to  gambling  for  a  living.  I 
won  largely  one  night  of  Major  Lucy ;  and  he  paid 


TJie  Captains  Story.  63 

me  with  that  boy's  mother.  I  meant  to  have  sold 
her;  but  I  saw  the  good  that  was  in  her,  and  kept 
her  for  myself.  She  was  half  black ;  but  I  loved 
her.  I  could  n't  help  it,  for  she  was  all  truth  and 
goodness  ;  and  I  had  n't  found  those  things  in  other 
women.  She  wanted  me  to  give  up  gaming,  and 
go  to  the  Free  States.  I  would  have  done  it;  but 
I  did  n't  know  how  to  work,  and  thought  we  should 
only  starve ;  besides,  I  was  a  gentleman,  bred  up 
to  think  work  degrading.  We  lived  together  ten 
years ;  and  though  I  led  a  bad,  reckless  life,  there 
were  times  when,  with  her,  I  was  happy.  But  I  got 
on  a  long  debauch,  the  brandy  maddened  me,  and 
I  gambled  her  away.  You  know  the  rest,  —  the  boy 
has  told  you.  It  has  made  me  what  I  am,  —  a  ru- 
ined, lost  man." 

Neither  spoke  for  a  time.  At  last  the  boy  said  : 
"I  don't  think  you  were  so  much  to  blame.  A 
Southerner  once  came  to  our  place  and  did  some 
very  bad  things.  Mother  told  me  about  it ;  and 
she  said  she  pitied  more  than  she  blamed  him.  She 
said  he  had  been  brought  up  where  they  call  bad 
things  good,  and  that  had  warped  his  nature ;  so 
he  could  n't  be  expected  to  do  as  well  as  we.  She 
thought  that  we,  perhaps,  are  no  better,  for  the  light 
we  have,  than  your  folks  are." 


64  The   Young   Virginian, 

"And  did  your  mother  say  that?"  asked  the 
trooper ;  "  do  you  think  she  would  say  that  of  me  ? " 

"  I  know  she  would,  —  I  know  she  would  pity 
you  more  than  I  do ;  for  she  's  a  great  deal  better 
than  I  am." 

A  long  silence  again  followed.  It  was  broken  by 
the  trooper.  "If  I  should  go  North  with  you,  do 
you  think  your  mother  would  let  me,  once  in  a  while, 
see  you  and  her?" 

"  O  yes  !     I  'm  sure  she  would." 

"And  could  I  get  work  there?" 

"  O  yes  !  You  could  tend  in  a  store,  —  I  have 
done  it,  —  or  you  could  do  writing.  There  's  plenty 
to  do,  so  many  have  gone  to  the  war." 

"I  would  do  anything,  —  cut  wood,  haul  a  hand- 
cart,—  anything  to  be  near  some  one  who  would 
help  me  —  help  me  to  be  a  better  man  than  I  am." 

"I  know  mother  would  do  it.  Ever)-body  says 
they're  better  for  knowing  her,"  answered  the  boy, 
earnestly. 

"I  can  believe  it,  if  she  is  like  you.  It  was  the 
goodness  I  saw  in  you  that  made  me  want  to  have 
you  with  me.  I  thought  I  could  make  you  love  me ; 
and  you  would  keep  the  fiends  away ;  and  so  I  might 
become  a  better,  happier  man  than  I  am." 

The  boy's  eyes  filled  as  he  answered :  "  You  seem 


The  Captains  Story.  65 

very  wretched,  but  you  don't  believe  that  fiends  are 

about  you  ! " 

«  Believe  it  boy  ?     I  know  it !  "  exclaimed  the  Cap- 
tain, the  strange  look  that  James  had  noticed  at  the 
spring   coming   again   on    his   face.      "I    have    seen 
them.     I    see   them   every  night.     Every  night   they 
come  about  me,  and-i"//^  is  among  them,   beckon- 
ing me  to  go  with  her.     Once,  I  thought,  she  yelled 
in  my  ear,  ^  am  come  — come  to  take  you  down  — 
down    to   the   fire   you   built   for   me.'     And  then  I 
thought   she    seized   me   and   dragged   me    down,  — 
down  through  hot  clouds  and  blazing  fires,  —  millions 
of  miles  below.     I  struggled  to  get  away,  but  could 
not  i  and  then,  for  the  first  time  in   thirty  years,  I 
prayed  ;  and  a  great  hand  reached  down  out  of  the 
clouds  and  tore  her  away,  and  so  for  the  time  saved 

me." 

"  It  was  the  hand  of  God  !  "  exclaimed  the  boy. 

"  No,  boy ;  it  was  the  hand  of  a  fiend.  It  only 
kept  me  for  greater  torment.  Every  night  she  came 
and  dragged  me  farther  and  farther  down,  and  every 
night  the  same  hand  reached  out  and  saved  me ;  but 
every  night  it  let  me  go  lower  and  lower.  People 
said  it  was  a  dream,  and  I  was  crazy.  But  it  was  not 
a  dream,  I  was  not  crazy.  It  was  real,— real  as 
hell.     It  was  hell !      Some  people  say  that  God  pun- 


66  The  Young  Virginian. 

ishes  us  before  our  time  by  lifting  the  veil  between 
this  life  and  that.  It  is  true.  He  has  done  it  to 
me ! "  and  he  paused,  his  lip  quivering,  and  his  eye 
fixed  on  the  vacant  air  before  him.  The  boy's  blood 
ran  cold,  and  he  could  not  speak.  After  a  time,  in  a 
more  subdued  voice,  the  trooper  went  on. 

"  And  so  I  am  going  now,  not  with  one  great 
plunge,  but  dragged  down  and  struggling  back, 
and  dragged  down  and  struggling  back  ;  and  at  every 
fall  going  lower  and  lower,  as  I  once  saw  a  man  go 
over  a  cliff  on  the  Blue  Ridge.  He  caught  on  a  jut- 
ting rock,  and,  clutching  at  the  cedars,  drew  himself 
up,  and  then  fell  back  and  drew  himself  up,  and  fell 
back  again  ;  and  so  did  twenty  times,  till  at  last  his 
hold  gave  way,  and  he  went  down  —  four  hundred 
feet !  —  never  to  rise  again  !  " 

As  the  Captain  said  this,  he  drew  a  flask  from  his 
pocket,  and  took  a  long  draught  of  its  contents. 

"  Ah !  now  I  see,"  cried  the  boy.  "  It  is  the 
whiskey  that  makes  you  see  these  things." 

''  No,  it  is  not,"  said  the  trooper.  "  It  keeps  them 
away.  When  I  don't  drink  they  come  about  me  till 
I  'm  almost  mad.  I  should  kill  myself  at  such  times, 
if  it  were  n't  for  this." 

"It  is  the  whiskey,"  replied  the  boy,  "I  know. 
Mother  has  told  me  all  about  it.     It  disorders  your 


The  Captains  Stay.  67 

brain  and  nerves ;  and  so,  in  your  dreams,  when  your 
reason  is  asleep,  you  fancy  all  kinds  of  horrid  things. 
Mother  says  the  nerves  are  the  piano  the  mind  plays 
on  ;  when  they  are  out  of  tune,  they  make  dreadful 
sounds  that  drive  us  crazy,  and  sometimes  make  us 

murder." 

"  But  these  things  come  to  me  when  I  am  awake, 
and  I  have  seen  her  in  broad  day.  I  saw  her  when 
that  boy  talked  to  me  at  the  spring,  as  plain  as  I  see 

you  now." 

''  That  only  shows  that  your  nerves  are  badly  shat- 
tered.* You  have  drunk  so  much,  and  so  long,  that 
it  has  clouded  your  reason.  I  know,  it 's  so.  It  is 
delirium  tremens/  A  young  man  had  it  in  our  town. 
Mother  was  with  him  when  he  died;  and  he  told 
her  he  was  in  the  horrid  place,  with  the  fiends  all 
about  him ;  but  they  were  n't  about  him,  for  mother 
was  there,   and    nothing   bad   ever  came  where  she 


was. 


It  may  be  so,  —it  may  be  so,"  said  the  Captam. 
"  I  wish  I  could  believe  it,  then  there  might  be  some 

hope  for  me." 

"There  is  hope  for  you,"  answered  the  boy. 
"  There  is  hope  for  every  one,  even  for  the  worst. 
Mother  says  God  loves  the  worst  the  best  of  all, 
if  they  only  try  to  turn  round.     Did  n't  he  leave  the 


68  The  Young  Virghiian. 

good  son  at  home,  and  go  out  to  meet  the  prodigal, 
when  he  was  yet  a  great  way  off;  and  did  n't  he  fall 
on  his  neck  and  kiss  him,  and  put  on  him  the  best 
robe,  and  kill  for  him  the  fatted  calf?  So  he  '11  do 
for  you,  if  you  only  turn  round." 

The  boy's  clear  eye  was  swimming  with  tears  as 
he  said  this.  I  have  seen  such  natures  —  natures 
like  open  cisterns  —  catching  all  the  rain  that  falls 
from  the  heavens,  and  holding  it  in  their  souls  for 
whoever  is  aweary,  whoever  is  athirst. 

After  a  long  silence,  the  Captain  said :  "  I  will 
go  home  with  you,  and  get  away  from  this  wretched 
life  I  am  living  \  but  I  must  first  go  back  to 
Mosby.  He  has  trusted  me  with  work  he  has 
his  heart  on,  and  he  has  always  stood  by  7fie.  I 
am  an  officer ;  we  can  slip  away  in  the  night  at 
any  time,  and  be  within  the  Union  lines  in  a  dozen 
hours.  But  see  that  the  boy  gets  away  at  the  black- 
smith's. So  long  as  he  stays,  his  mother  is  always 
before  me." 


T 


At  the  BlacksmitJis.  69 

CHAPTER   VI. 

AT    THE    blacksmith's. 

HE  road,  at  first  a  mere  bridle-path,  in  which 
two  horsemen  could  not  ride  abreast,  widened, 
when  it  started  northward  ft-om  the  little  cabin,  into 
a  wagon-track  overgrown  with  grass,  and  overarched 
with  the  broad  branches  of  the  oaks  and  maples 
which  grew  along  its  border.  In  this  road  fhe 
troop,  half  an  hour  later,  wound  slowly  along,  on 
their  way  to  the  blacksmith's. 

The  sun  was  just  sinking  below  the  trees,  gilding 
their    tops   with    the    glow   it   cast   on   the   western 
clouds,  when  they  ascended  a  little  hill  overlooking 
the    smithy,    and    halted     to    take    a    look    at    the 
ground    below    them.     It    was   a   farm    of    about   a 
hundred   acres,    hemmed   in   with  woods,  and   inter- 
sected  by  three  roads,  crossing  each  other  so  as  to 
form  a  triangle  in  the  centre  of  the  clearing.     This 
triangle     contained    something    less    than    a    dozen 
acres,  covered  with   huge   oaks   and   pines,  standing 
far  apart,  and  overgrown  with  the    thick,    tall    grass 
peculiar    to    that   part   of    Virginia.     Midway   along 
9 


70  The  Young  Virgiiiian. 

one  of  these  roads,  right  where  a  dense  forest 
lined  its  other  side,  stood  the  blacksmith's  house, 
barn,  and  workshop.  The  shop,  which  was  close 
upon  the  highway,  was  a  dilapidated  structure  of 
logs,  with  a  broad  plank  door,  and  a  huge  clay 
chimney,  going  up  on  the  outside,  in  the  fashion  of 
the  country ;  but  the  house,  which  was  located  far- 
ther back  from  the  road,  was  a  substantial  framed 
dwelling,  covered  with  clapboards,  and  surrounded 
with  a  broad,  open  piazza.  It  evidently  was  the 
home  of  a  man  tolerably  well-to-do  in  the  world, 
but  not  of  sufficient  social  importance  to  be  digni- 
fied with  the  name  of  "planter." 

As  the  troop  drew  up  on  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
the  Captain  turned  his  horse,  and,  his  face  wear- 
ing no  trace  of  the  strong  emotion  vrhich  had  so 
recently  clouded  it,  he  said  to  the  guide, — 

"  This,  then,  is  the  blacksmith's  ?  I  have  seen 
the  place  before,  —  this  same  month,  fifteen  years 
ago." 

"  It  'r'  been  yere  twice  that  long,  Cap'n  ;  and 
the  shop  longer ;  and  old  Miles  hes  been  in  'em," 
answered  the  guide,  scanning  the  house  intently,  as 
if  he  would  penetrate  the  blank  walls,  and  fathom 
the  hidden  life  within. 

"  I  remember  him,  —  a  worthy  man.     He  gave  me 


At  tJic  BlacksmitUs.  71 

a  night's  shelter  when  —  once   when  I  came  to  see 
the  Major?" 

"  He  ar'  a.  worthy  man,  Cap'n ! "  said  the  guide, 
warmly ;  "  just  as  decent  a  'un  as  the  Lord  ever 
put  breath  inter." 

"And  yet  he  is  a  traitor.  What  made  him  that? 
Does  n't  he  own  slaves  ? " 

"  He  done  it ;  two  or  three,  'fore  our  folks  stole 
'em ;  but  he  's  allers  hed  the  notion  that  the  kentry 
ar'  uverythin',  and  old  Virginny  nothin'.  Thet  's 
all  thar  is  agin  him  ;  for  he  'm  the  honestest,  biggest- 
hearted  old  man  ye  uver  know'd  on.  Thar  hain't 
ten  men  in  ten  miles  o'  this,  as  would  n't  risk  thar 
lives  ter  save  old  Miles  from  a  halter,  traitor  or  no 
traitor." 

"  And  he  's  been  giving  information  to  the  enemy, 
the  Colonel  says." 

"  Yas,"  answered  the  guide  ;  "  so  they  says.  Spy- 
in'  fur  the  Yanks  ;  and  it  'r'  sartin  he  jined  'em,  and 
fit  agin  us  in  the  Wilderness." 

"And  how  does  he  happen  to  be  at  home;  w^hy 
did  n't  he  stay  with  the  Yankees  ? " 

"Wall,  ye  sees  the  old  man  he  hed  three  boys. 
Two  on  'em  jined  the  Unions  ter  the  beginning  o' 
the  war,  and  got  killed.  Thet  wellnigh  done  him 
up,  for  he  allers  sot  a  heap  on   his  boys ;   but   he 


72  TJie  Young  Virgi)iian. 

hed  one  left,  a  little  chunk  uv  a  feller,  only  fifteen. 
Him  he  sot  more  on  nur  he  did  on  all  the  rest, 
'case  he  wur  a  sort  o'  chile  o'  his  old  age.  Wall, 
ye  knows  the  Gunnel  smoked  his  doin's,  and  tried 
ter  tuck  him  'fore  Grant  come  down  this  way,  and 
did  n't ;  fur,  ye  sees,  some  o'  the  neighbors  got 
warnin'  ter  the  old  man,  and  he  laid  out  in  the  woods. 
He  could  n't  live  long  in  that  way,  bein'  's  uvery  'un 
know'd  him,  and  mought  peach  on  him  ony  time ; 
so,  when  Grant  came  down  yere,  he  jined  the  Yanks 
right  open.  Wall,  Freddy  had  toted  his  feed  ter  him 
in  the  woods ;  and  when  his  father  went  off,  the  boy 
follored,  unbeknown  ter  him  or  his  mother.  He 
kept  on  his  track,  and  come  up  on  him  ter  the  army ; 
and  in  the  battle  he,  too,  war  killed.  Thet  took 
all  that  old  Miles  hed,  and,  the  whole  turgether, 
made  him  sort  o'  crazy.  He  put  the  boy  over  his 
shoulder,  and  brung  him  home  ter  his  mother.  It 
come  hard  on  her ;  but  it  did  n't  bend  her  loike  it 
done  him,  'case  she  hes  the  kind  o'  eyes  thet  look 
clar  through  the  clouds,  and  see  the  sun  allers 
a  shinin'  on  tother  side  o'  Jordan.  They  buried 
him,  right  thar,  whar  ye  see  the  roses  a-growin' "  ; 
and,  dashing  away  a  tear,  the  guide  pointed  to  a 
little  plat  of  flowers  just  at  the  right  of  the  door- 
way. 


At  the  BlacksmitJts.  73 

After  a  time  he  continued,  "  He  war  a  oncommon 
boy,  —  more  loike  a  gal  nur  a  boy,  —  and  he  loved 
the  old  man  beyont  tellin' ;  that  made  him  go  arter 
him."  And  he  brushed  away  another  tear.  "It 
makes  me  a  gal  ter  talk  on  it ;  fur,  I  toted  him 
'fore  he  could  go,  larned  him  ter  walk,  and  used 
allers  to  sleep  with  him  arter  he  was  a-weaned  from 
his  mother." 

A  slight  choking  was  in  the  Captain's  voice,  as 
he  said,  "  Then  you  lived  a  long  time  with  the  black- 
smith ? " 

"  Long  !  "  echoed  the  guide.  "  He  tuck  me  a 
mere  chunk  uv  a  boy,  brung  me  up,  and  was  a  father 
to  me ! " 

The  Captain's  face  grew  suddenly  red,  and,  turn- 
ing on  the  guide,  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  might  have 
been  heard  a  mile  away,  "  A  father  to  you !  and 
you  are  betraying  him  !  Get  out  of  my  sight ;  go 
away,  or  my  pistol  will  go  off  of  itself" 

Without  a  word,  the  guide  rode  off  among  the 
trees.  As  he  did  so,  a  woman's  face  suddenly  ap- 
peared in  the  door-way  of  the  blacksmith's  house, 
and,  as  suddenly  disappeared.  A  moment  later,  a 
white  cloth  was  seen  flying  from  one  of  the  upper 
windows. 

"  Der  ye  see,  Cap'n .? "  said  the  Sergeant,  who 
4 


74  ^/^^'  Young  Virginian. 

trafficked  in  corn,  and  kept  the  run  of  the  negro 
market,  "  they  doan't  see  us  fur  the  leaves ;  but 
they  's  yered  yer  shoutin',  and  is  guvin'  some  one 
warnin'." 

"  I  see,"  answered  the  Captain  ;  "  that  proves  the 
blacksmith  is  outside.  I  'm  not  very  sorry  ;  for  since 
I  've  learned  who  he  is,  I  have  n't  much  stomach  for 
catching  him," 

"  Hain't  it  more  loikely  that  he  's  friends  lyin'  out, 
as  he  is  axin'  ter  holp  him  ? "  asked  the  Sergeant. 

"  Well,  it  may  be  ;  and  we  'd  better  reconnoitre  the 
roads,  and  beat  the  bushes  opposite  the  house.  A 
half  dozen  men  in  that  underbrush  could  give  us  a 
good  deal  of  trouble." 

"  While  we  is  doin'  thet,  moughtent  the  old  fox,  ef 
he  's  in  the  house,  slip  through  our  fingers  ? "  asked 
the  subaltern. 

"Yes,  he  might." 

"  Thar,  see  !  "  now  shouted  the  Sergeant,  "  they  's 
wavin'  the  rag  from  the  scuttle.  Thar 's  men  out- 
side, as  sartin  as  preachin'.  We  mought  as  well 
look  for  a  needle  in  a  hayrick,  as  for  them  fellers 
'mong  the  bushes  ;  so  s'pose  we  post  oursel's  round 
the  house,  on  all  the  roads,  so  as  ter  hem  'em  in  ter 
the  openin'  (the  timbered  triangle  about  the  house), 
and  not  close  down  till  it  'r  right  dark  ?   Thar  '11  be  no 


At  tJie  BlacksmitJis.  75 

moon  till  on  tcr  midnight,  and  the  clouds  '11  hinder 
the  starlight ;  so  the  fellers  can't  git  no  sight  on  ter 
us  with  thar  shootin'-irons." 

"Your  advice  is  good,  Sergeant,"  answered  the 
Captain  ;  and  concealment  being  longer  useless,  the 
troop  emerged  from  the  cover  of  the  trees,  and  gal- 
loped openly  down  the  hill.  Turning  off  about  five 
hundred  yards  to  the  north  of  the  house,  they  rode 
rapidly  round  the  triangle,  and  dropping  men  at 
short  distances,  soon  had  a  cordon  of  troopers  com- 
pletely encircling  the  dwelling  of  the  blacksmith. 
Against  the  wood  opposite  the  house  no  one  was 
stationed,  for  at  that  point  was  the  apprehended  dan- 
ger ;  but  escape  from  the  building  was  impossible, 
as  every  one  of  the  four  sides  was  within  range  of 
half  a  score  of  carbines. 

So  the  troop  remained  for  a  full  hour,  while  the 
twilight  deepened  into  night,  and  the  thick  shadows 
gathered  round  the  lonely  dwelling.  Gradually  they 
closed  down  upon  it,  each  one  keeping  in  view  the 
dim  outline  of  his  nearest  comrade,  and  drawing 
nearer  to  it,  and  to  the  house,  as  both  grew  faint  and 
fainter  in  the  darkness.  At  last,  they  had  advanced 
to  within  two  hundred  yards  of  the  dwelling,  and  word 
was  given  to  "  close  in."  This  done,  the  Captain 
approached  the  doorway. 


76  The  Young  Virginiaji. 

A  single  candle  was  burning  in  the  sitting-room, 
and  by  its  light  he  saw  a  solitary  woman  sitting  be- 
side a  small  table.  An  open  book  was  before  her ; 
but  her  eyes  were  off  the  page,  and  a  look  of  harrow- 
ing suspense  w^as  on  her  features.  She  started,  when 
she  heard  his  demand  for  admission ;  but  answered 
the  summons  promptly.  She  was  neatly  clad  in 
homespun,  had  a  thin,  pale  face,  and,  though  not 
above  forty-five,  hair  that  was  as  white  as  the  fields 
in  mid-wdnter. 

"We  want  your  husband.  Madam,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain, as  the  woman  made  her  appearance  at  the 
doorway. 

"  He  is  not  here,  sir,"  she  answered,  calmly. 

"When  did  he  go  away?" 

"  Not  far  from  noon  to-day.  I  do  not  look  for  his 
returning." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  he  has  forsaken  you  ? " 

"  O  no,  sir  !  We  both  intend  to  go  where  we  can 
end  our  days  in  peace,  —  away  from  this  land  of  crime 
and  bloodshed.  You  have  taken  all  our  children,  you 
are  welcome  to  our  property ;  we  only  ask  leave  to 
go." 

"You  ought  to  have  it,"  answered  the  Captain. 
"  If  I  could  have  my  way,  you  should ;  but  I  have 
orders  to  arrest  your  husband,  and  I  am  a  soldier, 
Madam,  I  must  obey." 


At  the  Blacksmith's.  yy 

"  I  don't  blame  you,  sir,  but  you  '11  not  find  him 
here." 

"I  believe  what  you  say,"  said  the  Captain,  "but 
I  ought  to  search  the  house.     Do  you  object  to  it.** " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  answered  the  woman,  "  search 
all  the  buildings.     He  is  gone,  as  I  tell  y(^." 

"  Two  of  you,  here,"  said  the  Captain,  turning  to 
his  men,  "go  through  the  house,  two  others  to  the 
barn  and  the  smithy,  and  mind,  on  your  lives,  touch 
nothing." 

While  the  men  went  about  executing  this  order, 
the  Sergeant  said,  in  the  hearing  of  the  woman, 
"  Yer  remember  the  Cunnel's  orders,  Cap'n,  —  ter 
burn  the  housen  if  we  did  n't  kotch  the  old  traitor  ? " 

"Yes,"  answered  the  trooper,  "but  I  won't  burn 
a  house  over  a  woman's  head,  when  nothing  is  to  be 
gained  by  it.  If  the  Colonel  wants  it  done,  let  him 
send  some  one  else." 

"  Foller  orders,  Cap'n,"  cried  two  or  three  of  the 
men,  w^hose  faces  were  hid  by  the  darkness.  "The 
Cunnel  will  raise with  all  on  us,  ef  ye  doan't." 

"Well,  let  him,  I  won't  do  it,"  said  the  Captain, 
firmly. 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,."  said  the  woman,  "  but  don't  let 
pity  for  me  get  you  into  trouble.  It  is  only  a  few 
days  that  I  shall  stay  here ;   and  I    wouW   as   soon 


y8  The  Young  Virginian. 

the  house  were  burned.  The  sight  of  it  is  painful 
to  me ;  out  of  it  all  my  children  have  gone  to  be  — 
murdered." 

The  Captain  answered  kindly  :  "  I  shall  not  do  it, 
Madam.  I  would  like  to  help  you  to  get  away;  but 
I  can't.     JBft  not  remain  longer  in  the  damp  air." 

The  woman  thanked  him,  and  went  within;  and  a 
moment  afterwards  the  two  troopers  came  out,  re- 
porting that  no  one  was  secreted  on  the  premises. 

"As  I  expected,"  said  the  Captain,  walking  to- 
wards the  outbuildings,  near  which  the  two  boys 
were  stationed  under  guard  of  a  cavalryman.  James 
was  standing  near  the  man,  and  Robert  was  mounted 
on  a  horse  which  the  soldier  held  by  the  bridle. 

"Are  they  through  the  search.?"  asked  the  Cap- 
tain. 

"  Not  yet,  Cap'n,"  answered  the  man ;  "  I  reckon 
they  won't  wake  up  nuthtn'  more  'n  rats." 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  you  go  in  and  hurr}'  them  up, 
—  I  '11  stay  by  the  horses." 

The  man  dismounted,  and  handing  the  bridles  to 
the  Captain,  hurried  away.  As  soon  as  he  was  gone 
the  latter  said,  in  a  low  tone,  to  James,  "  Now  is  your 
time,  get  him  away " ;  and  dropping  the  reins  he 
followed  the  soldier  towards  the  barn.  James  turned 
towards   the   slave   boy;    but   the   latter   needed    no 


At  the  BlacksmitJis.    .  79 

prompting.  The  soldier  had  no  sooner  gone  away 
tlian,  seizing  a  pistol  from  the  holster,  he  slid  to  the 
ground ;  and  now,  as  James  turned  to  where  he  was 
hidden  behind  the  outside  horse,  he  said  in  a  loud 
whisper,  "  Come,  we  can  get  away,  follow  me." 

The  white  boy  instinctively  let  fall  the  reins,  and 
followed,  as  the  other  bounded  away  in  the  darkness. 
Freedom,  to  a  prisoner  the  dearest  of  all  earthly 
things,  was  right  before  him.  It  gave  wings  to  his 
feet,  but,  suddenly,  .as  he  ran,  something  seemed  to 
say  to  him,  "The  Captain  trusts  you.  Should  you 
leave  him  now?"  As  he  thought  of  this  his  pace 
slackened ;  then  he  paused,  and  then  turned  about 
and  ran  rapidly  back  to  the  horses.  The  faithful  ani- 
mals, more  faithful  than  he,  stood  where  he  had  left 
them.  He  had  scarcely  again  taken  the  reins  when 
the  Captain  strode  rapidly  towards  him. 

"  Is  he  gone  ? "  he  said,  in  a  quick,  eager  way. 
"  Ah !  I  see !  Thank  God.  He  is  off  my  con- 
science !  " 

Soon  the  men  emerged  from  the  barn ;  and  as 
the  last  one  turned  to  close  the  door,  he  cried  out, 
"  See,  Cap'n  !  the  house  !  it  'r  afire  !  " 

Where  James  and  the  Captain  stood  the  view  of 
the  house  was  shut  off  by  the  intervening  barn ; 
but   as   the   man   spoke,  they  rushed   to   the   corner 


8o  •    TJic^   Young   Virginian. 

of  the  building,  and  looked  towards  the  dwelling. 
Its  whole  after-part  was  ablaze  !  Bursting  from  the 
windows  of  the  second  story,  the  flames  were 
mounting  the  walls,  creeping  up  the  roof,  and  fast 
tingeing  the  dark  night  with  the  deep  glow  of  sun- 
rise. The  w^oman,  her  face  wearing  a  tranquil 
look,  stood  near  the  doorway;  and  as  the  Captain 
was  entering  the  house,  she  said  to  him,  "Don't 
go  in,  sir !  It  's  already  beyond  saving ;  let  it 
burn." 

"We  can  save  some  of  the  furniture,"  he  an- 
swered. "  Here,  men,  dismount !  Four  of  you  stay 
by  the  horses,  the  rest  —  into  the  house.  Get  out 
all  you  can  !  " 

Carpets  and  feather-beds  soon  came  on  tiptoe 
out  of  the  doorw-ays,  and  picture-frames,  looking- 
glasses,  and  crocker)'-ware  tumbled  pell-mell  out  of 
the  windows ;  and  in  fifteen  minutes,  the  larger  por- 
tion of  the  blacksmith's  household  goods  were  scat- 
tered in  disordered  heaps  about  the  court-yard. 
The  fire  had  then  gained  such  headway,  that  the 
dwelling  was  one  mass  of  flame.  Dancing  along 
the  eaves,  leaping  above  the  roof,  and  tossing  its 
arms  up  to  the  black  sky,  it  let  down  a -shower  of 
red  rain,  and  then,  gathering  in  a  crimson  cloud, 
floated  off"  far  away  over  the  forest.     Soon  the   roof 


A^  the  BlacksmitJis.  8 1 

and  rafters  tumbled  in,  and  then  a  blazing  skeleton 
was  all  that  was  left  of  the  blacksmith's  dwelling. 

"You  are  without  shelter,"  said  the  Captain  to 
the  woman  :  "  mount  my  horse,  and  we  '11  take  you 
wherever  you  like." 

"  No,  no  :  the  nearest  house  is  a  mile  away,"  she 
answered,  "  I  will  walk." 

"  I  insist  on  taking  you,"  replied  the  Captain ; 
and  then,  turning  to  the  rest,  he  added,  "Mount, 
men,  now  we  '11  be  off." 

The  troop  had  mounted,  and  the  Captain,  stand- 
ing between  his  horse  and  the  burning  building, 
was  helping  the  woman  upon  the  pommel  of  his 
own  saddle,  when  from  the  wood  opposite  the  road 
came  the  dull  report  of  a  shot-gun,  followed  by  the 
sharper  crack  of  a  rifle.  Two  of  the  troopers 
rolled  upon  the  ground,  wounded ;  and,  quick  as 
thought,  the  Captain  bounded  into  his  saddle,  cry- 
ing out,  "Back,  men,  to  the  opening  behind  the 
barn.  Every  one  of  you  to  a  tree,  and  give  them 
what  they  send." 

As  they  wheeled  their  horses,  the  w^oman  said  in 
a  low  tone,  "  It  's  Miles !  Cling  close  to  me. 
Captain,  and  he  won't  hit  you. 

Ping !  ping !  came  the  rifle-shots,  —  five  times   in 
rapid  firing,  and  five   horses   or   men   rolled   to   the 
4*  F 


82  TJie  Yoimg  Vii'gijiian. 

ground,  wounded  or  dying.  Among  them,  was  the 
poor  fellow  behind  whom  James  was  riding,  and, 
grasping  the  reins,  the  boy  pressed  on  with  the  rest 
into  the  timbered  opening.  "There's  only  two,"  — 
shouted  the  Captain,  "a  shot-gun  and  a  Spencer 
rifle !  Quick,  men !  dismount,  and  we  '11  have 
them." 

Even  as  the  Captain  spoke,  a  bright  flash  and 
a  sharp  crack  came  from  the  shadow  of  the  smithy, 
not  forty  feet  away.  His  horse  made  a  mad  leap 
into  the  air,  then  a  step  or  two  forward  it  staggered, 
and  then  fell  heavily  to  the  ground.  The  woman 
was  thrown  at  the  first  bound,  but  the  Captain, 
wounded  and  unable  to  disengage  his  limbs,  went 
down  with  the  maddened  animal.  A  dozen  men 
sprang  to  the  ground,  and  by  main  force  pulled 
away  the  dying  horse ;  and  then  the  boy  lifted  the 
head  of  the  fallen  man,  saying,  "Are  you  much  hurt?" 

"  O  yes  !  "  he  gasped  ;  "  to  death  !  But  run,  boy, 
run!" 

"I  can't  leave  you  now,"  said  James. 

"  You  can' t  do  me  —  any  good,  —  run  !  "  The 
trooper's  words  came  short  and  faint;  his  hand 
closed  on  the  boy's  tightly;  his  eyes  grew  fixed 
and  glassy;  and  then  his  head  dropped  heavily  to 
the  ground. 


At  the  BlacksmitJis.  S3 


insr 


"He    is    dead!"    shrieked   the   woman,   kneel 
down  and  parting  the  long,  gray  hair  from  his  fore- 
head. 

"Dead!"  cried  the  Sergeant;  and  "Dead!" 
echoed  the  men,  gathering  round  in  the  dim  light 
of  the  burning  house,  and  standing  there,  living 
targets  for  the  death-dealing  rifles  in  the  opposite 
wood. 


84  The  Young  Virginian. 

CHAPTER   VII. 

THE    SLAVE     BOY'S    STORY. 

"  T~>vEAD!"  The  word  broke  like  a  wail  from 
^-^  the  men,  as  they  stood  there,  unmindful  of 
their  wounded  comrades,  and  of  the  rifles  even  then 
levelled  at  their  own  lives  !  Why  was  this  ?  What 
was  there  in  that  man,  so  stained  with  crime,  so 
steeped  in  debauchery,  that  made  them  hang  over 
his  body  as  if  they  had  lost  their  only  friend  ?  Noth- 
ing but  a  soul  —  incrusted  all  over  with  the  wrong- 
doing of  forty  years,  but  yet  —  a  soul. 

James  lingered  until  they  lifted,  the  Captain  from 
the  ground,  and  bore  him  to  the  barn  as  tenderly 
as  they  would  have  borne  a  child  ;  and  then,  while 
they  laid  him  gently  on  a  little  heap  of  straw,  he 
walked  slowly  away. 

He  paused  on  the  hill  where  the  troop  had  halted 
a  few  hours  before,  and  looked  back  at  the  burn- 
ing building.  Lights  were  moving  to  and  fro  about 
the  grounds,  and  the  frame  of  the  blacksmith's  house 
still  lifted  its  red  arms  to  the  midnighi  sky;  but 
all  was  still  and  silent  around,  —  silent  as  the  grave 


TJie  Slave  Boys  Story.  85 

which,  even  then,  the  troopers  might  be  scooping 
for  the  body  of  their  friend.  But,  where  had  gone 
the  man's  soul  ?  The  boy  thought  of  this  ;  and  as 
he  thought,  he  gave  way  to  a  feehng  of  bitter  grief. 
If  in  his  Httle  heart  there  was  pity  for  that  wretched 
man,  what,  think  you,  there  was  in  the  Infinite 
bosom,  whose  boundless  compassion  to  our  feeble 
pity  is  as  the  great  ocean  to  the  smallest  drop  ever 
wept  by  the  clouds? 

After  a  time  the  boy  walked  forward.  Uncertain 
which  way  to  go,  he  paused  a  moment,  and  again 
looked  back  at  the  burning  house.  The  lights,  which 
had  been  scattered  about  the  grounds,  were  now  col- 
lected in  the  barn,  and  the  troopers  were  attending 
on  their  wounded  comrades,  stretched  there  upon  the 
floor.  The  larger  number  were  grouped  around  the 
little  bed  of  straw,  on  which  he  had  seen  them  lay  the 
Captain.  Kneeling  beside  him,  they  seemed  to  be 
chafing  his  limbs,  bathing  his  forehead,  and  moisten- 
ing his  lips  with  something  one  held  in  his  hand. 
Could  it  be  that  he  was  still  living  .'*  O  no !  He 
was  dead ;  for  soon  they  brought  in  a  wide  board, 
and  lifted  his  head,  as  if  to  lay  him  upon  it.  They 
had  only  been  arranging  his  limbs,  and  now  were 
about  to  bear  him  out  to  bury  him. 

The  boy  could  look  no  more  ;  and,  turning  away, 


86  TJic  Young  Virginian. 

he  again  walked  forward.  He  had  gone  but  a  few 
paces,  when  a  shadow  ghded  from  the  opposite  wood, 
and  came  towards  him.  "  Is  he  dead  ? "  it  asked 
in  a  voice  eager  and  trembhng. 

"  Yes,  —  dead  ! "  answered  James. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  exclaimed  the  other,  half  speaking, 
half  grating  the  words  through  his  closed  teeth. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  cried  James,  stepping  back 
and  trying  to  scan  the  slave  boy's  features  in  the 
darkness. 

"  What  I  say,  I  hated  that  man.  I  am  glad  he  is 
dead  ! "  and  he  laughed  a  bitter,  hollow  laugh,  the 
echo  of  the  dark  passion  which,  more  than  any 
other,  allies  men  to  fiends. 

"  You  should  not  hate  him ;  bad  as  he  is,  God 
loves  him." 

."  Not  hate  the  man  who  killed  my  mother  with  a 
slow  death  !     Would  you  not  do  it  ? " 

The  white  boy  hesitated  before  he  answered  :  "  No, 
I  think  not.  I  should  try  to  forgive  him,  —  try  to 
leave  him  to  God.  The  Bible  says,  vengeance  be- 
longs to  Him." 

"  So  it  does  ;  but  it  says,  too,  that  He  makes  his 
ministers  a  flame  of  fire  !  " 

"  Yes ;  the  fire,  the  storm,  and  the  lightning  are 
all  His  ministers,  but  we  should  let  Him  direct  them." 


The  Slave  Boys  Sto)y.  ^7 

"I  suppose  He  does;  but  the  lightning  doesn't 
always  strike  in  the  right  place." 

"  It  may  not  seem  to  :  but  it  does,  —  ahvays  in  the 
right  phue.     He  has  suffered   more  than  a  thousand 

deaths." 

"  Do  you  know  that  ?  Are  you  sure  of  it  ?  "  cried 
the  slave  boy,  quickly,  eagerly. 

"Yes.  He  told  me  so.  He  has  thought  he  was 
in  hell,  with  the  fiends  about  him ;  and  all  because 
he  drank,  and  —  did  wrong  by  your  mother." 

"Thank  God!  thank  God!  O  my  mother,  my 
mother  !  you  are  avenged ! "  and  even  in  the  dark 
night,  the  whhe  boy  thought  he  saw  his  form  di- 
late, and  his  arms  stretch  out  wildly  to  the  black 
sky.  A  cold  horror  ran  over  him,  —  the  same  which 
at  the  spring  had  chilled  his  blood,  and  made 
his  heart  almost  stop  beating.  For  a  while  both 
stood  in  the  road  silent ;  then  the  white  boy  said  : 
"Why  should  you  hate  him  so  much?  He  did  no 
greater  wrong  than  your  own  father." 

"  He  did.  I  will  tell  you.  But,  come ;  let  us  go 
on"  ;  — and  he  clutched  the  other's  arm  with  the  grip 
of  an  iron  vice.  "  As  soon  as  he  is  buried  they  will 
follow  us,  — not  you,  but  me,  — for,  ha!  ha!  my 
blood  and  bones  are  better  than  yours,  —  they  will 
sell  for  something !     If  he  were  living,  there  would 


S8  The  Young  Virgijiian. 

be  no  danger,  for  he  wanted  to  be  rid  of  me.  Even 
my  shadow,  as  it  kept  abreast  of  him  on  the  grass, 
was  a  torture  to  him.  I  saw  it.  It  haunted  him  as 
we  went  along  the  road,  as  if  it  had  been  the  ghost 
of  my  mother !  " 

Again  for  a  while  they  said  nothing,  but  walked 
slowly  on  in  the  darkness.  The  clouds  were  break- 
ing away,  and  here  and  there  a  star  was  shining; 
and  the  wind  came  through  the  trees,  not  noisily, 
but  in  broken,  stifled  sobs,  as  if  it  were  the  angels 
weeping  over  the  human  sorrow  which  the  night 
hid  from  the  eyes  of  men. 

At  last  the  slave  boy  broke  the  silence.  "  You 
remember,"  he  said,  "the  children's  quarter  at  the 
plantation,  —  the  long,  iow  building,  with  the  great 
cliimney  at  the  end  ?  " 

'•  Yes,  I  was  in  it.  Your  grandmother  told  me  you 
lived  there  until  your  mistress  took  you  to  the  man- 
sion." 

"  I  did.  After  my  mother  was  gambled  off,  I  was 
kept  there,  —  huddled  half  naked  on  its  dirty  floor 
with  about  twenty  other  children,  whose  mothers 
were  either  dead  or  sold  away.  I  remember  one 
night,  —  a  bleak  winter  night,  when  the  wind  shook 
the  old  cabin,  and  the  snow  blew  in  great  drifts 
through  the  logs,  —  that,  all  but  frozen  with  the  in- 


The  Slave  Boys  Stoiy.  89 

tense  cold,  I  tried  to  get  at  the  fire.  The  older  chil- 
dren had  crowded  round  it,  and  were  keeping  the 
younger  ones  away  ;  and  after  bearing  the  cold  as 
long  as  I  could,  I  asked  a  larger  boy  to  let  me  sit 
on  the  hearth  before  him  a  few  minutes,  —  only  a  few 
minutes.  He  refused  \  and  when  I  urged  him,  struck 
me.  I  was  only  six,  and  he  was  eleven  ;  but  the 
blow  maddened  me,  I  grappled  with  him,  threw  him 
to  the  floor,  and  then  stamped  upon  him,  and  beat 
him  about  the  head  and  face  until  his  best  friends 
would  n't  have  known  him.  The  other  children,  and 
the  old  woman  who  had  charge  of  us  all,  stood  by 
powerless  with  fear  ;  but  the  yells  of  the  boy  brought 
the  negroes  from  the  other  cabins  just  in  time  to 
save  me  from  doing  a  murder. 

"One  of  them  went  for  my  master,  —  I  did  n't  then 
know  he  was  my  father,  —  and  he  came,  and,  while  I 
crouched  down  by  the  fire,  listened  to  the  stor)^  of 
the  old  woman.  She  told  it  worse  than  it  was,  and 
painted  me  as  a  young  devil ;  but  he  only  said  I  was 
*a  chip  of  the  old  block,'  took  me  up  in  his  arms, 
and  carried  me  off  to  the  mansion.  I  expected  a 
beating,  but  he  ordered  me  a  warm  supper,  and  put 
me  to  bed  in  a  room  with  my  grandmother.  In  the 
morning  he  gave  me  a  suit  of  warmer  clothes,  and 
said,  '  Go  back  to  the  cabin,  Robby,  and  if  a  smaller 


90  The  Yoiuig  Virginian. 

boy  ever  strikes  you,  don't  strike  him  back,  only 
laugh  at  him  ;  but  if  a  larger  one  does  it,  pitch  into 
him,  and  if  you  can't  whip  him,  let  me  know  and 
I  '11  have  it  done.' 

"  I  told  him  I  would,  and  was  going  away,  when 
the  mistress  came  in  and  proposed  I  should  stay  at* 
the  mansion.  Grandmother  was  cook  at  the  great 
house,  and  she  had  persuaded  her  to  do  this.  My 
master  gave  his  wife  a  queer  look,  and  said  he  had 
wanted  to  take  me  ever  since  Hannah,  my  mother, 
had  gone  away,  but  had  not  dared  to  propose  it. 

"  After  that,  during  the  day,  I  did  little  chores 
about  the  house  for  the  mistress,  and  at  night  slept  in 
a  room  with  my  grandmother.  The  mistress  was  a 
weak,  silly  woman,  fond  of  show  and  dress  ;  but  she 
always  treated  me  kindly,  and  so  did  my  father  when 
she  was  not  by;  then,  he  never  seemed  to  know 
I  was  in  the  room. 

"  So  things  w^ent  on  for  a  year,  when  one  night 
my  grandmother  woke  me  out  of  a  sound  sleep, 
crying  and  taking  on  as  if  some  great  thing  had 
happened.  I  said  nothing,  only  listened.  She  was 
on  her  knees  asking  God  to  bless  master,  because 
he  had  promised  never  to  sell  me,  never  to  part  us, 
and  to  let  her  teach  me  to  read,  so  I  might  learn  all 
about  God  and  heaven.  She  went  to  bed,  and  I 
went  to  sleep  while  she  was  praying  and  singing. 


TJic  Slave  Boys  Stoiy.  91 

"I  learned  fast,  axid  very  soon  could  read  in  any 
part  of  the  Bible.,  Then,  one  day  I  went  into  the 
librar),  where  my  father  was  alone,  and  he  asked 
me  if  I  knew  my  letters.  I  told  him  I  did,  and 
read  to  him  a  whole  chapter.  He  gave  me  another 
book ;  and  making  me  sit  down  close  by  him,  said 
very  kindly,  '  Now,  Robby,  read  from  this,  and 
don't  be  discouraged  if  it  comes  harder  than  the 
Bible.'  It  was  a  volume  of  Shakespeare,  and,  right 
off,  I  read  nearly  the  whole  of  Othello.  Then  he 
took  me  on  his  knee,  and  said  it  was  a  pity  I 
was  n't  all  white ;  but  I  must  come  to  the  library 
whenever  the  mistress  could  spare  me,  and  read 
whatever  I  liked.  I  did,  —  passed  whole  days  there, 
devouring  the  great  books,  and  living  in  a  new 
world  j  and  no  matter  how  busy  master  was,  he 
never  found  me  in  the  way,  and  always  had  a 
kind  word  for  me. 

"  About  a  year  after  this  —  I  was  nearly  nine  — 
he  sold  away  his  body-servant,  and  the  mistress  let 
him  take  me  in  his  place.  Then  I  was  with  him 
all  the  while,  and  he  set  me  regular  lessons  out  of 
the  other  children's  books  \  and  soon,  though  they 
had  a  governess,  I  was  ahead  of  them.  Then  he 
took  me  again  on  his  knee,  and  said  again,  and  a 
great  tear  was  in  his  eye  as  he  said  it,  'Robby, 
it  's  a  pity  you  're  not  all   white.' 


92  TJic  Young  Virginian, 

"I  went  with  him  every\vhere,  —  to  Richmond, 
Washington,  everywhere  ;  and  though  he  was  a  pas- 
sionate man,  he  never  once  struck  me,  or  spoke  to 
me  unkindly.  He  seemed  to  love  me ;  my  grand- 
mother doted  on  me,  and  every  one  was  kind  to 
me :  but  I  was  not  happy,  for  within  me  was  a 
ceasless  yearning  for  something,  —  for  the  love  of  a 
mother.  The  other  children  in  the  house  and  at 
the  quarters  had  mothers,  and  I  longed  for  one 
too  ;  would  gladly  have  exchanged  places  with  the 
poorest  field  boy  on  the  plantation,  if,  like  him,  I 
could  have  laid  my  head  on  a  mother's  lap,  and 
wept  my  little  griefs  away.  My  grandmother  told 
me  to  pray,  and  then  God  might  soften  master's 
heart,  and  make  him  buy  my  mother.  I  did  so ; 
and  night  after  night  I  lay  awake  praying  until 
morning.  But  God  did  n't  hear  me.  My  mother 
did  not  come  back.  Then  I  took  to  reading  the 
Bible,  —  reading  it  from  end  to  end,  over  and  over 
again,  to  find  out  what  I  must  do  to  bring  her  back ; 
but  I  could  find  out  nothing.  It  only  told  me  to 
pray;  so  I  kept  on  praying,  but  my  very  heart  was 
breaking. 

"  One  day,  while  I  was  in  this  mood,  master  came 
into  the  library,  and  found  me  cr)ing  bitterly. 
*  Robby,  what  are  you  crjdng  about .? '  he  asked,  very 


The  Slave  Boys  Story,  93 

kindly.  I  told  him,  and  went  down  on  my  knees,  and 
begged  him  to  buy  my  mother.  He  took  me  up 
gently,  and  said  he  would  if  he  could,  but  he  could 
not.  He  had  offered  four  times  her  value,  but  the 
man  who  owned  her  would  not  part  with  her  on 
any  terms.  It  was  the  truth,  for  tears  were  in  his 
eyes  when  he  said  it. 

"  Well,  three  years  went  away.  We  often  heard  of 
my  mother,  but  none  of  the  family  ever  saw  her. 
She  was  going  about  to  Richmond,  Vicksburg,  New 
Orleans,  everywhere,  the  mistress  of  a  gambler.  I 
was  old  enough  to  know  what  that  meant,  and  the 
thought  of  it  almost  drove  me  crazy. 

"  In  the  house  was  a  boy  and  a  girl  older  than  I, 
and  two  younger  boys,  my  half-brothers  and  sister. 
The  mistress  was  fond  of  society,  and  often  made 
great  parties,  at  which  we  and  the  neighbors'  children 
acted  in  dramas  and  tableaux.     I  was  only  a  slave 
boy,  but  I  always  had  a  part,  for  I  was  the   best 
actor   among    them.       I    was   so   good,    that   master 
would   say  that  when  I   grew  up   I    should   be   put 
upon  the  stage,  just  to  show  the  hypocritical  parsons 
that  a  black  man  is  as  smart  as  a  white  one.     I  sup- 
pose this  was  owing  to  grandmother's  father  having 
been  a  king.     He  ivas  a  king,  ruled  over  thousands 
of    men,    where   men    are   free,    free    as   the    storms 


94  TJie  Yoiuig  Virginiaji. 

among  the  mountains.  My  grandmother  said  I  was 
just  like  him,  had  his  air,  his  ways,  his  very  features ; 
and  that,  I  suppose,  accounts  for  my  being  naturally 
an  actor,  for  kings  are  only  actors. 

"  Well,  one  night  when  I  was  twelve  years  old,. — 
I  remember  it  as  if  it  were  yesterday,  —  we  played 
Othello,  and  I  was  lago.  I  had  played  the  part 
often,  knew  it  all  by  heart,  but  never  before  took  in 
its  meaning.  He  was  a  low,  mean,  skulking  villain, 
but  he  had  a  great  purpose,  and  a  great  passion. 
That  passion  took  possession  of  me.  It  crept  into 
my  veins,  looked  out  of  my  eyes,  and  loomed  up 
before  me  at  night,  a  gaunt,  ghastly  figure,  with  a 
whetted  knife  always  in  its  hand.     It  was  Revenge  ! 

"One  night  I  told  my  grandmother  about  it,  and 
she  said  the  evil  spirits  had  got  hold  of  me,  and  I 
must  pray  and  read  the  Bible.  I  read  the  Bible, 
read  how  David  and  the  old  prophets  prayed  God 
to  curse  their  enemies,  and  the  spirits  only  took 
stronger  hold  of  me.  I  read,  too,  how  God  was  a 
God  of  vengeance,  and  I  knew  that  men,  and  angels, 
and'  devils  are  only  his  instruments.  I  was  a  man, 
if  not  in  years,  then  in  soul,  and,  slowly  it  came  upon 
me  that  I  was  God's  instrument  to  avenge  my  mother 
on  the  gambler. 

"  I    said    so    to    my   grandmother ;    and    then,    for 


TJie  Slave  Boys  Story.  95 

the  first  time,  she  tokl  me  the  truth,  —  that  my 
master  was  my  own  father ;  that  he  had  sold  my 
mother  away,  and  for  years  had  used  her  just  as 
she  was  being  used  by  the  gambler.  What  she 
meant  to  soothe  me  only  roused  me  the  more.  I 
had  read  of  everything,  but  of  nothing  like  that ! 
What  were  Zanga's  or  Hamlet's  wrongs  to  mine  ? 
It  was  not  a  father  murdered,  —  that  I  could  have 
borne,  —  it  was  a  mother  dishonored,  polluted  in 
body  and  soul  by  my  own  father  and  a  wretched 
gamester,  w^ho  tricked  his  dirty  bread  from  greedy 
fools,  and,  perhaps,  bought  his  filthy  drink  with  the 
wages  of  her  shame !  It  was  enough  to  stir  the 
blood  in  a  beggar's  veins.  It  stirred  mine,  for  it 
is  the  blood  of  kings,  —  of  kings,  I  tell  you !  and 
then,  two  victims  rose  ghastly  before  me,  —  the 
gambler,  and  my  own  father  ! 

"  I  whetted  a  knife,  and  one  night  I  stole  behind 
him  in  the  library.  The  candle  cast  my  shadow 
on  the  wall.  He  saw  it,  sprang  up,  and  wrenched 
the  knife  from  my  hand.  I  expected  he  would 
kill  me ;  and,  opening  my  arms,  I  told  him  to  do 
it ;  for  I  was  mad  with  passion.  He  merely  locked 
the  door ;  put  the  knife  in  his  pocket,  and  pointed 
me  to  a  seat  near  him.  Then  he  said,  —  and  his 
voice   was   as   kindly   as  if   it  had    been   the    voice 


96  TJic  Young  Virginian. 

of  my  mother,  —  '  Robby,  why  do  you  try  to  mur- 
der me  ? ' 

"  I  told  him  all,  for  I  scorned  concealment ;  and 
he  said  :  *  Poor  boy ;  you  would  kill  your  best  friend. 
If  I  were  dead,  you  might  be  set  at  work  in  the 
fields,   or  even  sold  to  Georgia.' 

"  I  told  him  I  did  not  care  what  became  of  me ; 
that  if  I  lived  I  would  avenge  my  mother. 

"  *  But  killing  me  won't  do  it,  Robby,'  he  answered. 
*I  have  done  both  her  and  you  WTong,  but  I  am 
willing  to  atone  for  it ;  willing  to  give  any  price 
for  her;  to  set  you  both  free,  and  send  you  both 
North,  where  you  can  grow  up  as  good  as  any  man.* 

"'And  why  don't  you  do  it?'  I  yelled,  storming 
with  passion ;  for  I  did  not  believe  he  meant  what 
he  said. 

"*I  have  told  you,'  he  answered,  'that  Thompson 
won't  sell  her ;  and  I  tell  you  now,  that  I  have  offered 
him  ten  thousand  dollars  for  her.  I  loved  your 
mother,  love  her  still,  for  she  is  the  best  woman 
I  ever  knew.  I  refused  to  part  with  her,  though 
my  wife  made  my  house  almost  too  hot  to  hold  me  ; 
but  one  night,  when  I  was  gaming,  that  man  won 
her  from  me.  I  was  drunk ;  he  had  drugged  the 
liquor,  for  I  had  taken  only  two  glasses.  I  had  to 
pay  the   debt;    or   be  pointed  at  as  a  man  without 


TJic  Slave  Boys  Story.  97 

honor.  I  was  weak.  I  had  n't  courage  to  meet  the 
shame,  and  I  let  her  go.  The  night  she  went  away, 
I  offered  him  twice  her  value,  if  he  would  let  her 
stay  ;  but  he  refused.  I  have  since,  several  times, 
offered  ten  thousand  dollars  for  her,  and —  he  has 
refused  it' 

"  I  asked  him  if  he  would  offer  it  again  ;  and  sitting 
down  at  his  table  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  gambler. 
He  said  in  it  that  he  would  pay  that  price  ;  and  if 
that  was  not  enough  he  would  pay  more,  and  agree 
to  set  my  mother  free.  When  he  had  sealed  and 
directed  the  letter,  he  gave  it  to  me  to  put  into  the 
post-office,  and  then  said  :  '  He  may  not  accept  of 
this,  Robby ;  but  whether  he  does  or  not,  the  day 
you  are  eighteen  you  shall  be  free,  and  have  enough 
to  begin  life  in  the  Free  States.  I  would  let  you 
go  now,  but  you  have  hot  blood  in  you,  —  you  get 
it  from  me  and  your  king  of  a  grandfather,  —  and 
you  need  guiding.  Here  is  your  knife,  you  may 
take  my  life  if  you  will ;  perhaps  I  should  take  yours 
if  you  had  wronged  me  as  I  have  wronged  your 
mother.' 

"I  threw  the  knife  away,  fell  at  his  feet,  clasped 

his  knees,  and  begged  him  to  forgive  me.      He  took 

me   up   in  his   arms,    and,    for   the   first  time  in  his 

hfe,  kissed  me.     And  that  was    my  father!     As   he 

5  G 


98  The  Young  Virginian. 

was,  way  down  at  the  bottom  of  his  soul,  —  that  was 
my  father ! " 

The  wind  sobbed  low  among  the  trees,  and  the 
new-risen  moon  cast  a  pale  glow  on  tlie  face  of  the 
slave  boy  as  he  said  this.  Such  a  look  James  had 
never  seen  on  a  human  face.  It  was  that  of  a 
mother  bending  over  a  dead  child,  —  grief,  tender- 
ness, despair,  were  all  in  it. 

After  a  while  he  went  on. 

'"  At  the  end  of  a  -fortnight  a  letter  came  from  the 
gambler.  He  refused  to  sell  my  mother;  said  there 
was  not  money  enough  in  Virginia  to  buy  her ;  and 
that  she  di^^  not  want  to  be  free !  He  said  that, 
and  within  three  years  sold  her,  —  sold  her  for  a 
paltry  sum,  and  —  to  be  a  slave-trader's  mistress! 

"Well,  the  war  broke  out.  I  was  seventeen,  and 
mother  was  two  years  dead,  —  dead,  but  living  in 
my  dreams ;  for  every  night  she  came  to  me,  sat 
by  my  bed,  and  with  her  cold,  pale,  sweet  face, 
smiled  blessings  on  me !  I  do  not  know  how  it 
was,  but  the  air  she  brought  stilled  the  tempest  in 
my  veins,  and  blunted  the  purpose  of  my  life, — 
revenge. 

"  But  the  war  broke  out.  A  great  gale  came  dov/n 
from  the  North  and  woke  my  slumbering  passions. 
The  blood  of  my  kingly  fathers  throbbed  again  to 


The  Slave  Boys  Story.  99 

the  music  of  battle,  and  roused  me  to  the  wrongs 
of  my  race.  But  that  was  not  all.  He  —  the  gam- 
bler—  was  among  them;  and  I  could  meet  him  in 
fair  fight,  and  strike,  at  one  blow,  for  my  mother 
and  my  people ! 

"  My  father  was  a  leading  Rebel ;  but  one  night 
I  went  to  him,  and  said,  '  Be  one  year  better  than 
your  word,  —  let  me  go  ! '  '  Where  would  you  go  ? ' 
he  asked.  I  told  him  ;  and  he  flew  into  a  storm  of 
passion ;  poured  upon  me  a  torrent  of  abuse  ;  called 
me  traitor,  renegade,  miscreant,  ingrate,  coward,  and 
ordered  me  from  his  sight.  Without  a  word  I  went, 
—  for  he  was  my  flither.  My  grandmother  blessed 
me,  and  bade  me  go,  for  she  thought  I  was  going  — 
to  be  a  man.  I  was  going  to  be  a  man ;  but  not 
the  man  she  meant,  —  the  docile  drudge  of  some 
white-livered  wretch,  who  ate  his  humble  pie,  and 
chinked  his  greasy  gold  at  home,  while  traitors  were 
tearing  out  the  very  vitals  of  his  country.  Not  such 
a  man ! 

"Well,  I  went,  and  the  Yankee  general  locked 
me  up,  and  sent  me  back  to  my  father.  Why? 
My  arms  are  as  strong,  my  body  as  straight,  my 
features  as  good,  my  skin  almost  as  white  as  yours ! 
Why?  Because  the  hot  sun  had  tanned  my  grand- 
father's face,  and  at  the  distance  of  a  hundred  years 
cast  a  shadow  upon  mine  ! 


100  The  Yoitfig  Virginiatt. 

"  My  father's  passion  was  over;  and  he  said  to  me, 
as  coolly  as  I  say  it  to  you  :  '  Robby,  I  have  done 
for  you  what  I  have  done  for  no  other  of  my  chil- 
dren, —  educated  you  myself ;  and  I  have  loved 
you  better  than  them  all.  In  return,  you  have  be- 
trayed me,  and  your  country.  You  wanted  to  be  a 
slave,  one  of  the  meanest  kind,  —  a  Yankee  slave. 
You  shall  be  a  slave,  where  the  thing  is  as  bad  as 
the  name." 

"  He  kept  his  word.  He  sold  me  to  Georgia.  I 
did  not  blame  him  ;  for  had  I  been  he,  I  should 
have  done  as  he  did.  After  the  good  mistress  in 
Georgia  had  taken  me  to  the  mansion,  and  the  crisis 
of  my  fever  was  over,  one  night  —  whether  I  was 
waking  or  sleeping  I  do  not  know — I  was  aroused 
by  some  one  entering  my  room.  The  moonlight 
came  dimly  through  the  open  window,  but  it  cast 
no  shadow.  I  looked  up,  —  the  air  was  hea\y  with 
human  breath  ;  yet  I  could  see  nothing ;  but  I  felt 
—  as  you  have  felt  when  some  one  has  come  unseen 
and  noiselessly  upon  you  —  a  human  presence  filling 
all  the  room.  Soon,  as  I  looked,  a  shadow  came  out 
of  the  opposite  wall,  —  dim,  wa\y,  jagged,  —  the  mere 
outline  of  a  form  like  nothing  mortal.  Slowly  it 
rounded  out,  slowly  as  if  being  created,  and  grew 
into  a  moving  figure,  with  gaunt,  bony  hands,  long. 


The  Slave  Boys  Stoiy.  loi 

withered  arms,  and  red,  blazing  eyes  that  glared  on 
me  with  the  look  of  a  demon.  A  cold  horror  crept 
over  me,  and  I  covered  my  face  with  the  bedclothes. 
When  I  looked  again,  a  long  knife  was  in  its  hand, 
whetted  and  glittering.  And  then  I  saw  its  features. 
They  were  those  I  had  seen  thousands  of  times  in 
my  glass ;  and  yet,  they  were  not  mine,  nor  my 
mother's,  nor  my  kingly  ancestor's  \  but  something 
made  up  of  them  all.  Grandmother  says  they  are 
all  alike,  but  they  are  not.  His  are  the  midnight 
storm,  hers  the  evening  breeze,  mine  —  what  you  see 
them.  The  thin,  skinny  hand  pointed  to  the  North  ; 
and  then  reached  out,  and  offered  me  the  knife-hilt. 
I  clutched  it,  and  it  turned  into  a  pistol,  —  a  large 
navy  repeater.  Then  the  figure  faded,  and  in  its 
place  came  a  man  on  horseback.  It  was  he,  the 
gambler  !  I  knew  him  by  that  likeness  before  my 
grandmother  spoke  his  name  in  the  library !  I  raised 
the  pistol,  fired,  and  horse  and  rider  went  to  the 
ground,  quivering.  A  dozen  men  sprang  forward, 
and  pulled  the  horse  away  ;  but  he  had  gone  down  — 
down  to  hell,  where  I  sent  him." 

The  slave  boy  paused,  and  drew  the  large  navy 
pistol  he  had  taken  from  the  holster  of  the  trooper. 
Holding  it  up  a  moment  in  the  moonlight,  he  cried  : 
"That  was  months  ago;  but  here  is  the  repeater, 
and  yonder  is  the  man,  —  all  that  is  left  of  him." 


102  The  Young  Virginian. 

"  And  you  killed  him ! "  gasped  the  white  boy, 
starting  back,  the  cold  horror  again  running  along 
his    veins. 

"  I  did  ! "  cried  the  other  in  a  ringing  tone,  his 
dark  eye  glittering  like  burnished  steel  ;  "  if  he  had 
had  a  thousand  lives,  I  would  have  taken  them  all." 


A  Midnight  Encounter.  103 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

A    MIDNIGHT    ENCOUNTER. 

T  T  was  a  terrible  deed,  and  a  terrible  spirit  that 
I  prompted  it,  —  the  very  spirit  which  drove  the 
bad  angels  to  the  dark  abodes  where  is  only  weeping  . 
and  walling  forever.  But,  while  we  shudder  at  the 
crime,  may  we  not  pity  the  criminal?  May  we  not 
remember  his  misguided  life,  his  misdirected  pas- 
sions, his  cruel  wrongs,  which,  rankling  long  in  his 
soul,    had   at   last   driven  him  to  the  very  verge   of 

madness  ? 

It  was  of  this  that  the  white  bo^  thought,  as  he 
turned  away,  and  bent  down  his  head  in  silence.  As 
he  thought,  he  prayed, -the  very  prayer  which,  eigh- 
teen hundred  years  ago  went  up  from  the  lips  of  the 
Father's  best-beloved  Son,- '' Forgive  him;  for 
he  knows  not  what  he  does  !  " 

The  slave  boy  stood  for  a  while  watching  his 
companion,  and  saying  nothing;  but  at  last  he  made 
a  sudden  movement.  Bending  his  ear  low  to  the 
ground,  he  clutched  the  other  by  the  arm,  and,  in  a 
hurried  voice,  said,  "Come.  We  must  go.  I  hear 
the  tread  of  horses.     They  are  following  us!" 


I04  TJie  Yoimg  Virg^inian. 

The  white  boy  turned,  and,  shaking  off  his  hold, 
said  in  a  startled  way :  "  Go !  quick !  Do  not  let 
them  take  you  !     Run  !  run  for  your  life  !  " 

"  We  must  both  run,  —  we  'd  better  take  to  the 
woods.  We  can  fast  for  a  day  or  two,  —  by  that 
time  they  '11  have  left  the  mansion,"  answered  Rob- 
ert, not  heeding  the  altered  manner  of  James. 

"  No,  Robert,"  replied  James,  "  I  cannot  go  with 
you.  Until  you  see  the  great  crime  you  have  done, 
we  cannot  be  friends." 

"  Crime  !  "  echoed  the  slave  lad,  in  a  tone  of  strong 
passion ;  but  in  a  moment,  half  choking  back  his 
words,  he  added,  with  more  of  his  usual  manner : 
"  So  be  it !  I  don't  blame  you.  You  don't  know 
me,  —  you  can't  know  me.  Your  blood  is  stagnant 
mud,  —  mine  is  blazing  fire  !  If  I  believed  in  your 
God,  I  might  be  the  tame  slave  that  you  are." 

Not  heeding  the  taunt,  the  white  boy  said  :  "  You 
will  believe  in  Him,  if  not  here,  then  hereafter.  1 
shall  pray  that  you  may,  and  that  He  may  forgive 
3-ou." 

"  Forgive  me ! "  cried  the  other,  the  fierce  look 
again  on  his  face ;  "  ask  pardon  for  your  own  sins ; 
don't  waste  your  prayers  on  mine ! " 

"You  need  pardon  more  than  you  know\  The 
time  will  come  when  you  will  think  so.  But  go, 
the  Rebels  are  upon  us.     Go  ! " 


A  Midnight  Encounter.  ■  105 

The  slave  boy  darted  into  the  woods,  and  James 
sUink  back  among  the  underbrush  which  hned  the 
road,    at    the   very   moment   that   the   horsemen    as- 
cended the  little  knoll  on  which  they  were  standing. 
There   were  but  four  of  them,— three  men    and   a 
woman  ;    and  as  they  came   slowly  forward  into  the 
moonlight,  the  white  boy  saw  they  were  not  Rebels. 
The  woman's  face  was  hidden  by  a  deep  hood ;  but 
beneath  the   slouched  hat  of  the  man  riding  beside 
her,  James  detected  the  long  gray  hair,  and  strong, 
furrowed  features  of  the  soldier  whom  he  had  seen 
with  the  dead  boy  on  the  battle-ground.     It  flashed 
upon  him.       He  was  the  blacksmith !      Leaving  his 
concealment,  the  boy  stepped  out  into  the  roadway. 
"  Halt !  "  cried  the  man.     "  Who  goes  there  ? " 
"  A  friend,"  answered  James,  moving  toward  him. 
"  Halt,  I  say  !  "  again  cried  the  man.     "  Not  an- 
other step.     Who  are  you?" 

"  He  'm  all  right.  Boss,"  said  one  of  the  others, 
riding  closely  to  the  boy.  "  He  'm  the  little  feller 
as  th'^e  Cap'n  tuck  ter  Major  Lucy's.  We  're  right 
glad  you  're  got  away,  but  what  is  ye  a-doin'  yere  ? " 

"I  started  to  go  back  to  the  mansion,"  answered 
James,  recognizing  the  guide;  "but  have  altered 
my  mind.     I  want  to  get  to  the  Union  lines." 

"  Ye  's  forty  miles   frum  them,  and  thar  's  a  right 
5* 


io6  •  TJie  Yoiuig  Virginian. 

smart  chance  ye  '11  be  took  ;  'sides,  I  '11  bet  high  on 
it,  ye  don't  know  a  rod  o'  the  way,"  said  the  man  in 
a  kindly  tone. 

"  I  don't,  but  perhaps  you  '11  tell  me  ? "  answered 
James. 

"  Thar  hain't  no  safe  route,  but  the  one  the  birds 
travel  —  over  the  tree-tops.  On  any  other  road  thar 
hain't  ten  men,  or  wimmin  uther,  as  would  n't  hunt 
ye  down  loike  a  dog,  ef  they  seed  the  color  o'  yer 
clo'es.  I  don't  tuck  ter  'em  myself;  but  I  reckon 
yer  a  loikely  lad.  What  der  ye  say,  Boss  ?  wont  ye 
tuck  him  along  ?     Ye  moiight  put  it  to  my  'count." 

The  blacksmith  had  been  scanning  the  face  of  the 
boy  during  this  conversation,  and  now  asked,  "  Where 
have  I  seen  you,  my  lad  t " 

"  On  the  battle-ground,  near  to  Major  Lucy's," 
answered  James. 

The  man  started  as  if  some  unsef^n  hand  had 
struck  him,  and  then,  without  a  word,  rode  rapidly 
away,  the  woman  following. 

"  Ye  made  him  think  uv  Freddy.  He  ar'  sore  on 
thet,  drefful  sore,"  said  the  guide.  "  But  git  ye  up 
yere,  I  '11  manage  the  Boss." 

As  James  mounted  behind  the  guide,  he  said  to 
him,  "Is  not  that  the  lady  I  saw  at  the  burning 
house  ? " 


A  Midniglit  Encounter.  107 

"  Yas.  She  's  staid  a-nussin'  the  Cap'n,  and  thet  's 
made  us  late  ;  we  must  hurry  up,  or  he  '11  git  ter 
Mosby  afore  I  does." 

"  What !  Is  the  Captain  not  dead  !  "  exclaimed 
James,  in  a  loud,  eager  tone. 

"  Dead  !  Why  no,  only  wounded.  The  hoss 
fallin'  on  him,  knocked  out  his  senses,  that  war  all. 
He  'U  be  well  in  a  week." 

"  Thank  God  !   thank  God  !  "   cried  James. 

This  joyful  exclamation  was  mingled  with  a  smoth- 
ered curse  from  the  thick  bushes  by  the  roadside. 
The  guide  heard  it,  and  levelling  his  carbine  quick 
as  thought,  he  cried  out,  "  Come  out  o'  thet,  or  I  '11 
fire." 

The  bushes  swayed  slightly,  but  gave  no  answer, 
apd  the  man  was  about  to  fire,  when  the  w'hite  boy 
grasped  his  hand,  exclaiming  :  "  Don't  shoot !  He 
is  my  friend  ! " 

"  Let  him  come  out  then.  I  'm  at  ticklish  \MJck. 
I  can't  hev  no  skulkers  round." 

As  the  guide  spoke,  Robert  stepped  into  the  road, 
and,  looking  him  coolly  in  the  face,  said,  "  What 
do  you  want  with  me  ? " 

''  I  wants  to  know  what  ye  's  a  doin'  yere,  —  that 's 
all,  fur  I  doan't  loike  uther  yer  color  or  yer  looks. 
Tell  me  thet,  or  I  '11  put  a  bullet  through  ye,"  re- 
sponded the  guide. 


io8  The  Young  Virginian. 

The  other  horseman  had  ridden  forward  after  the 
blacksmith,  and  the  trooper  and  Robby  were  not 
unequally  matched.  Drawing  the  large  navy  repeater, 
the  latter  took  a  step  or  two  towards  the  guide,  and 
said,  coolly :  "  Two  can  play  at  that  game.  But 
I  '11  answer  your  questions  if  you  '11  answer  mine." 

"Ye  knows  a'ready  all  I  keers  ter  keep  ter  my- 
self," said  the  trooper,  with  a  merry  laugh,  dropping 
the  muzzle  of  his  carbine. 

"And  I  know,  too,  it  would  cost  your  life,  if  I 
should  whisper  it  to  Mosby,"  said  the  slave  lad  as 
coolly  as  before. 

"  I  reckon  ! "  answered  the  other,  "  but  ye  carn't 
skeer  me  with  no  sich  talk.  I  'se  counted  the  cost ; 
and  I  reckon  a  man's  life  hain't  wuth  much  if  he 
carn't  look  hisself  in  the  face." 

"  You  're  a  true  man  ;  I  '11  not  betray  you,"  said 
the  slave  boy,  putting  up  his  pistol.  "  Has  the  troop 
started  for  the  mountains?" 

"I  reckon  not.  They  hain't  loikely  ter  go  afore 
daylight ;  they  '11  hev  ter  borror  a  waggin  ter  tote 
the  Cap'n." 

"  And  they  '11  not  get  through  to-morrow  ? " 

"  No.  They  '11  be  loikely  ter  camp  out  over  night. 
The  Cap'n  carn't  travil  fast  ef  he  's  hurted  nigh  so 
bad  as  the  ma'am  say." 

"Which  road  will  they  take?" 


A  Midnight  Encounter.  109 

"  The  stretest,  I  reckon  ;  but  why  on  yerth  does 
ye  want  ter  know  ?  " 

"  No  matter.     Who  is  in  command  now  ? " 

"The  Sargint,  in  course  ;  the  feller  as  sots  so  high 
on  niggers,"  answered  the  trooper,  with  a  smothered 
laugh. 

"  Then  you  '11  be  followed  before  morning  !  " 

"  Follered  !  "  echoed  the  guide,  "  why,  bless  yer 
soul  !  he  reckons  I  'm  ter  camp  afore  now.  I  tuck 
a  stret  line  fur  it,  and  thet  's  how  I  come  outer  ole 
Miles." 

"  That  may  be  ;  but  he  knows  that  only  two  fired 
on  them,  —  Bursley  and  the  blacksmith  ;  and  he  's 
sense  enough  to  guess  they  would  make  at  once  for 
Bursley's  cabin.  Lend  me  your  horse,  and  I  '11  stand 
guard  till  you  are  safely  away." 

"  Lend  ye  my  hoss  !  "  echoed  the  guide  ;  "  I  'd  as 
soon  think  o'  lettin'  ye  kiss  my  sweetheart,  —  'sides, 
I  must  put  out  ter  onst  fur  the  camp.  But,  ye 's  a 
sensible  feller,  ef  ye  does  sell  by  the  pound.  S'pose 
ye  come  on  ter  the  shanty,  and  tuck  John's  nag. 
It  b'longs  ter  one  o'  our  men ;  and  't  won't  do  fur 
John  ter  hev  it  round,  but 't  won't  make  no  odds  ter 
ye;  —  ye 's  stolen  property  yerself." 

The  slave  boy  assented,  and  a  brisk  half-hour's 
walk  took  the  party  to  the  little  log-house  in  the 
clearing. 


no  The  Yoiing  Virginian. 


CHAPTER    IX. 


RECAPTURED. 

A  BRIGHT  light  was  shining  through  the  logs  of 
the  old  cabin,  and,  rapping  at  its  door,  James 
and  the  guide  were  soon  admitted.  A  dense  smoke 
filled  the  apartment  ;  but  through  the  thick  cloud  the 
boy  saw  the  indistinct  outlines  of  half-a-dozen  people. 
None  of  them  spoke  until  the  new-comers  stood  in 
the  full  blaze  of  the  fire  ;  then  a  joyful  cry  broke 
from  a  huge  bundle  of  clothes  in  the  corner,  and 
James  felt  his  arms  pinioned  in  the  warm  embrace 
of  old  Katy. 

"  Am  it  you,  honey  t  am  it  you  ? "  she  cried,  wedg- 
ing in  the  words  between  the  caresses. 

"  Yes,  Aunty,"  said  the  boy ;  "  but  I  did  n't  expect 
to  find  you  here  ! " 

"  I  'se  sot  out  arter  Robby,"  she  answered.  "  Whar 
am  de  chile  ?  De  ma'am  say  he  'm  got  shut  ob  de 
goorillas." 

"  He  has.  He  is  now  down  the  road  keeping 
watch  until  we  are  safely  away." 

"  Bress  de  Lord  1  bress  de  Lord  fur  dat,"  exclaimed 


Recaptured.  1 1 1 

the  old  woman,  crossing  her  hands  on  her  breast, 
and  lifting  her  eyes  upward.  "  It  am  de  Lord's 
doin's.     I   know'd   he  'd  neber  leab  me  nur  forsake 


me. 


She  knew  this,  but  she   also  knew  that  the  Lord 
works  always  by  means;  and,  doubting  the  Captain's 
ability  to  effect  the  release  of  her  grandson,  she  had 
set  out,  a  few  hours  after  his  departnre,  to  walk  all 
the  way  to  the  camp  of  the  guerillas.     Mosby,  she 
had   heard,  was  a  cruel,  hard-hearted  man  ;  but  she 
felt  sure  he  could   not  resist  the   pleading   of  such 
love  as  hers  for  Robby.     Where  the  camp  was  she 
did   not   know;    but   she   remembered   that   Bursley 
had   been    in  the   Rebel   army,   and,  coming   to   his 
house  to  learn  the  route,  had  been  told  by  his  wife 
to  await  his  return  in  the  morning.     So  it  was  that, 
so  late  at  night,   she  was  found  with  the   party  of 
fugitives  at  the  old  log  cabin  in  the  clearing. 

The  guide  watched  with  a  pleased  look  the  meet- 
ing between  James  and  old  Katy,  and  when  it  was 
over,  turned  to  the  blacksmith,  who  was  sitting  on 
a  rough  bench  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  and 
said,   "  Ye  '11   tuck  the   boy  along,   Boss !     He   ar'  a 

loikely  lad." 

"I  will,"   answered   the  other,   without   lifting   his 

eyes  to  the  speaker. 


112  The  Young  Vh'ginian. 

"  Wall,  it  'r'  loike  ye ;  howsomever,  I  thanks  ye," 
said  the  guide.  Then  advancing  a  few  steps,  and 
holding  out  his  hand,  he  added,  "  I  must  be  goin',  — 
good  by." 

"  Not  a-going  to  fight  again  for  this  cursed  Rebel- 
lion ! "  said  the  blacksmith,  rising  suddenly  to  his 
feet.     "  You  '11  not  do  that,  Jake  !  " 

"  Not  fur  the  Rebellion,  Boss,  —  fur  ole  Virginny. 
I  could  n't  sleep  o'  nights  ef  I  did  n't  do  all  I  could 
fur  the  ole  State." 

"And  what  has  she  ever  done  for  you,  or  for  poor 
men  like  you  ? " 

"  Nothing,"  answered  the  guide,  smiling,  "  but 
guv'n   us  a  chance  ter  root  or  die." 

"  She  has  not.  She  has  taken  the  bread  from 
your  mouths  to  feed  the  rich  man.  She  has  cursed 
you  with  a  set  of  aristocrats  who  have  stolen  all  the 
best  land,  and  left  you  only  a  sorry  patch,  just  big 
enough  for  your  graves.  That  is  all  she  has  done 
for  you,  and  yet  you  fight  for  her !  You  cannot 
succeed.  A  just  God  \vill  not  uphold  wickedness 
forever;  and  He  does  not  mean  that  the  children 
shall  be  as  the  fathers,  without  knowledge,  without 
morals,  without  religion,  crushed  down  and  trodden 
on  by  a  set  of  men  who  do  nothing,  produce  nothing, 
and  only  cumber  the  ground.  Be  a  man,  Jake.  Turn 
about.     Fight  for  your  country." 


Recaptured.  1 1 3 

"  That  ar'  the  difference  atween  us,  Boss,"  an- 
swered the  guide,  gravely.  "  Yer  kentry  ar'  bigger  'n 
mine,  it  tucks  in  all  creation  ;  mine  ar'  bounded  by 
Ole  Virgin ny.  I  hate  ter  be  at  odds  \vi'  ye,  fur  I 
loves  ye  and  the  ma'am.  I  feels  all  ye  has  done  fur 
me,  and  I  hain't  ongrateful.  I  would  die  fur  ye.  Ter 
do  ye  ony  good,  I  'd  hang  willin'  ter  the  nighest 
tree;  but  —  good  by,  God  bless  ye." 

The  blacksmith  grasped  his  hand,  his  wife  threw 
her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  then  the  guide  went 
out  into  the  darkness. 

For  a  while  all  was  silence,  and  the  cloud  of  smoke, 
blown  again  into  the  room  by  the  opening  of  the  door, 
clearing  away,  James  looked  around  the  apartment. 
It  was  squalid,  cheerless,  and  comfortless  in  the  ex- 
treme. Its  floor  was  a  few  loose  plank,  only  half 
covering  the  ground  ;  and  its  furniture,  a  couple  of 
tottering  bedsteads,  an  old  pine  table,  three  or  four 
broken  chairs,  and  the  rude  bench  on  which  the 
blacksmith  and  his  wife  were  seated.  A  huge  iron 
pot,  from  which  a  leg  of  ham  protruded,  was  hang- 
ing over  the  fire  ;  but  the  rest  of  the  cooking  uten- 
sils, which  might  have  been  packed  in  a  soldier's 
knapsack,  were  littered  about  the  hearthstone.  Five 
saffron-hued  children,  asleep  in  one  of  the  beds,  and 
a    gaunt,    half-starved,    dilapidated   figure,    somewhat 

H 


114  The  Young  Virgin ia^t. 

resembling  a  man,  sitting  moodily  in  a  corner,  with 
the  others  I  have  mentioned,  were  the  occupants  of 
the  apartment. 

James  was  wondering  how  human  beings  —  to  say- 
nothing  of  children  —  could  exist  in  such  a  place, 
when  his  eye  caught  that  of  the  blacksmith  follow- 
ing his  in  its  curious  survey  of  the  premises.  The 
boy  looked  down ;  but  the  man  said,  —  a  singular 
expression,  half  sad,  half  mirthful,  playing  over  his 
features,  — "  You  don't  have  such  houses  at  the 
North ! " 

"  No,  sir  :  not  such  houses.  Are  there  many  such 
here  ? " 

"Many?  Thousands  in  this  valley,  and  along  the 
Blue  Ridge.  Scarcely  any  of  our  poor  people,  any- 
where, have  better ;  and  even  these  they  don't  own. 
They  belong  to  the  aristocrats,  who  give  them  the 
use  of  them  and  of  ground  enough  to  plant  a  few 
hills  of  corn  and  potatoes,  on  condition  that  they 
vote  and  fight  at  their  bidding,  —  vote  and  fight  to 
keep  themselves  and  their  children  poor  and  of  no 
account  forever.  That  is  the  way  the  Rebel  leaders 
brought  about  Secession,  and  filled  the  Southern 
army, — by  getting  the  poor  whites  down,  and  hold- 
ing them  down,  till  —  all  but  in  name  —  they  were 
as  much  slaves  as  the  blacks.    Bursley,  here,  is  forty 


Recaptured. 


1 1 


years  old,  but  he  can't  read  or  write,  and,  until  he 
went  into  the  army,  was  never  out  of  this  county  in 
his  Ufe.  His  father,  and  his  grandfather  before  him, 
lived  on  this  clearing,  and  paid  their  rent  by  voting 
for  old  Lucy  and  young  Lucy,  —  sold  their  birth- 
right for  a  mess  of  pottage,  and  mighty  poor  pot- 
ta^'-e  at  that.  John  did  the  same  till  about  a  year 
agl  He  was  n'l  to  blame,  for  he  did  n't  know  any 
better;  but  then  he  remembered  that  he  was  a 
man,  and  ran  away  ;  and  now  they  are  hunting  him 
down  as  they  would  hunt  a  wild    beast." 

As  the  blacksmith  spoke  the  last  words,  the 
bowed  figure  in  the  corner  rose,  and,  coming  for- 
ward, opened  a  tattered  garment  which  once  had 
been  a  shirt,  and  showed  the  boy  his  naked  breast 
in  the  fire-light.  It  was  of  a  swarthy  hue,  and 
deeply  ridged  where  the  thin  flesh  fell  away  about 
the  ribs  ;  but  over  its  ridges  and  hollows  —  red  as 
fire,  and  large  as  a  man's  hand  — was  the  letter  D, 
scarred  into  it  by  a  hot  iron.* 

*  -  Branding  deserters,"  writes  one  who  has  seen  the  thing 
done  at  Richmond,  "is  a  beautiful  operation,  and  as  humane  as 
beautiful.  The  culiirit  is  fastened  to  a  large  table,  and  a  large 
•  D  '  is  scarred  upon  his  person.  In  other  countries  where  this 
punishment  is  inflicted,  a  bar  of  iron  with  a  type  or  letter  on  one 
end  of  it  is  used,  which,  being  heated,  is  applied  to  the  spot  to  be 
branded    But  a  more  cruel  process  and  instrument  are  employed 


Ii6  TJie  Young  Virginiari. 

"  This,"  said  the  man,  with  a  grim  smile,  "  are 
the  what  I  owes  'em.  For  every  drap  o'  blood  tliey 
drawed  yere,  I  'II  hev  a  life,  as  sure  as  thar  's  a 
God  in  heaven." 

"  It  is  awful,"  said  James,  turning  his  head  away, 
a  sickly  feeling  coming  over  him. 

"Awful!"  echoed  the  blacksmith.  "Which  is 
worse,  —  to  torture  the  body,  or  starve  the  soul  ? 
These  men  have  legislated  the  poor  man  out  of  all 
his  rights,  —  out  of  schools  and  churches,  and  so 
kept  him  ignorant  and  degraded,  made  him  servile 
and  dependent,  without  any  ambition  or  any  aspi- 
rations for  a  better  condition.  And  now  they  are 
making   him   fight  to  rivet  the  chains  upon  his  own 

by  the  chivalry.  A  plain  bar  of  iron,  about  an  inch  in  diameter, 
narrowed  down  a  little  at  the  point,  is  heated  to  incandescence, 
and  used  as  a  sign  painter  would  use  a  brush  in  lettering,  only  in 
a  very  slow  and  bungling  manner.  A  greasy  smoke  with  a  sick- 
ly stench  arises,  accompanied  with  crackling  sounds  and  the 
groans  of  the  victim,  as  the  hot  iron  sinks  deep  into  the  flesh. 
On  pretence  of  rendering  the  mark  of  disgrace  plain  and  indeli- 
ble, but  in  reality  to  torture  the  unfortunate  culprit,  the  hot  iron 
is  drawn  many  times  through  the  wound,  making  it  larger  and 
deeper,  until  the  victim,  unable  to  endure  the  excruciation  longer, 
faints,  and  is  carried  away.  The  operation  was  always  per- 
formed by  Keppard,  the  executioner  of  Kellogg ;  probably  the 
greatest  demon  in  human  form  outside  of  Pluto's  dominions." 


Recaptured.  \  \  7 

limbs,  and  to  transmit  his  own  degradation  to  his  re- 
motest children." 

"  I  never  heard  of  this  before,"  said  James.  "  I 
think  the  North  does  n't  understand  that  poor  white 
people  are  so  much  oppressed  at  the  South." 

"  It  don't.  Of  course  it  don't.  If  it  did,  it  would 
shed  a  few  tears  for  the  whites  as  well  as  for  the 
blacks  ;  it  would  take  some  means  to  get  truth  to  these 
people,  to  free  them  from  the  control  of  the  aristocrats, 
and  fit  them  for  the  same  freedom  it  is  giving  the 
negro." 

"That  ar*  true.  Boss,"  said  the  woman  of  the 
house,  turning  round  from  tending  the  boiling  ket- 
tle.    "  We  is  wuss  off  nur  the  niggers." 

"  Not  worse  than  the  slaves  ? "  exclaimed  James. 

"  Wuss  ? "  she  answered,  "  /  reckon  we  is  !  They 
is  keered  fur  when  they  is  old ;  and  when  thar  wuck 
ar'  done,  it  ar^  done ;  but  we  hain't  never  keered 
fur,  and  our  wuck  hain't  never  done.  I'se  hard  at 
it  uvery  night  arter  the  nigs  is  gone  ter  roost;  and 
thet  's  the  way  wi'  all  the  pore  people  round  yere. 
We  gits  no  edication,  don't  know  nothin',  and  has 
ter  wuck  all  our  lives  fur  them  as  owns  this  sile. 
That  's  it.  AVe  has  chillen,  and  they  grows  up,  and 
don't  know  no  more,  and  hain't  no  better  off  nur  we. 
I  reckon  we  i>  a  sight  wuss  off  nur  the  niggers." 


Ii8  The  Young  Virginian. 

Both  spoke  earnestly ;  and  it  was  plain  that  the 
trials  of  the  blacksmith  had  somewhat  embittered 
his  feelings ;  but  the  boy  had  ieen  enough  of  South- 
ern life  to  convince  him  that  they  spoke  the  truth. 
And  they  did  speak  a  great  truth,  —  one  which  we 
shall  do  well  to  heed.  These  poor  whites  must  be 
educated  and  elevated;  for  until  they  are,  and  are 
emancipated  from  the  control  of  the  chivalry,  the 
Union  will  not  be  secure,  and  our  country-  will  not 
be  really  great  and  free. 

_  But,  while  I  am  saying  this,  the  blacksmith  has 
risen  from  his  seat,  and  walked  nervously  up  and 
down  the  room.  Soon,  turning  to  John's  wife,  he 
says,  "  Ruth,  is  n't  the  bacon  almost  boiled  t  We 
must  be  twenty  miles  away  by  sunrise." 

The  words  were  scarcely  spoken,  when  the  door 
was  flung  open,  and  Robert  appeared  in  the  door- 
way. "  Run  1  "  he  cried,  "  the  Rebels  are  on  you  ! 
Run,  for  your  lives  !  " 

He  disappeared  as  quickly  as  he  came,  and  all 
in  the  room  sprang  to  their  feet.  No  trace  of  his 
recent  excitement  appeared  on  the  blacksmith's  face ; 
and,  as  cool  and  collected  as  if  going  about  his  ordi- 
nary pursuits,  he  said,  "  Pour  the  kettle  of  water  on 
the  fire,  Ruth.  They  mus'  n't  get  aim  at  us.  John, 
bar  the  door ;  and  you,  my  lad,  and  the  women  folks. 


Recaptured,  119 

go  into  the  ^oft.  Don't  be  afraid  ;  there  is  n't  more 
than  a  dozen  of  them,  and  behind  these  logs  we 
can  keep  them  at  bay  for  a  twelvemonth." 

"  A  dozen  ag'in  two  are  big  odds,  Boss.  Ye  don't 
mean  ter  stand  yer  ground  ? "  said  the  poor  white 
man,  going  towards  the  door. 

"  I  do,"  answered  the  blacksmith.  *'  I  'm  too 
old   to  run  any  more." 

"  Wall,  Boss,  then  ye  kin  count  me  out,"  and 
quickly  opening  the  door,  the  "native"  darted  away 
across  Jhe  clearing. 

A  bitter  smile  played  on  the  blacksmith's  face 
for  a  moment ;  but  then,  quietly  barring  the  door, 
he  said,  as  if  speaking  to  himself:  "He  can't  be 
blamed.  What  can  be  expected  of  blood  that  has 
been  cowed  down  for  a  centur}^" 

The  women  had  by  this  time  gone  into  the  attic, 
and  James  stood  alone  by  the  hearth,  treading  out 
the  last  embers  of  the  fire.  When  this  was  done, 
he  turned  to  the  blacksmith  :  "  I  '11  be  frank  with 
you,  sir,"  he  said,  "  they  '11  release  me  if  they  take 
me  to  Mosby;  but  I  '11  stand  by  you." 

"  W^ll,  you  '11  be  better  than  John.  Can  you  fire 
a  shot-gun  ? " 

"  I  have  done  it." 

Handing  him  John's  weapon,  the  blacksmith  said  : 


120  TJie  Young  Virginian. 

"  Stand  there  in  the  chimney-corner.  Keep  quiet, 
and  don't  fire  until  I  do, — then  be  sure  of  your  man." 

The  full  moon  lit  the  clearing  with  a  sort  of  dim 
daylight ;  but  inside  the  house  all  now  was  as  dark, 
and  apparently  as  empty,  as  a  beggar's  pocket.  For 
a  while  they  waited  in  silence,  and  nothing  but  the 
deep  breath  of  the  blacksmith  broke  the  stillness ; 
but  soon  the  faint  tramp  of  horsemen  sounded  far 
down  the  road  towards  the  smithy. 

"  They  are  coming,  boy,"  he  said.  "  Keep  cool, 
and  don't  fire  till  you  are  certain  of  a  man.'-' 

The  sounds  came  nearer,  and  soon  a  dozen  cavalry 
emerged  from  the  belt  of  trees  which  skirted  the 
clearing.  A  half  of  them  turned  off,  as  if  to  gain  the 
woods  in  the  rear,  ^nd  the  rest,  dismounting,  crept 
softly  towards  the  front  of  the  cabin.  When  within 
two  hundred  yards  they  halted,  and  one  came  nearer, 
walking  his  horse  by  his  side,  and  keeping  under  the 
lee  of  the  animal.  Soon  he  paused  and  shouted, 
"  Ho  !  In  thar !  Come  out,  or  we  '11  burn  the  build- 
ing." 

No  answer  was  returned,  and  he  repeated  the  sum- 
mons ;  but  again  all  was  silence.  He  had  called 
several  times,  when  one  of  the  men  in  the  rear  cried 
out,  "They  hear  ye,  Sargint.     Fire  into  the  shanty." 

Resting  his  musket  across  the  back  of  the  horse, 


Recaptined.  121 

the  Sergeant  fired  into  the  window.  The  shot 
brought  a  reply  which  no  one  Iiad  expected.  One 
of  the  sleeping  children  uttered  a  piercing  cry,  and 
an  answering  yell  from  its  mother  sounded  from  the 
attic. 

"  My  God  !  "  exclaimed  the  blacksmith,  dropping 
his  rifle,  and  hurrying  to  the  bedside.  "  I  did  not 
think  of  the  children  !  " 

The  men  outside  were  like-minded;  for,  careless  who 
was  hit,  they  sent  another  bullet  crashing  through 
the  window,  in  the  direct  pathway  of  the  first  one. 
Lifting  the  screaming  child  tenderly  in  his  arms,  the 
blacksmith  said,  "  Whar  are  you  hurt,  little  one  ? 
Tell  me,  that 's  a  good  child  "  ;  —  but  a  deeper  scream 
was  the  only  answer. 

By  this  time  the  mother  was  down  the  stairway, 
the  other  children  were  awake,  and  all  were  scream- 
ing in  chorus. 

"  Go  to  the  door,  my  lad.  Tell  them  we  surrender, 
—  these  children  must  not  be  murdered,"  said  the 
blacksmith,  still  Xrj'mg  to  soothe  the  screaming  little 
one. 

James  did  as  he  was  bidden,  and  soon  half  a  dozen 
dark  forms  filled  the  doorway.     "  A   light,  —  quick  ! 
This  child  is  hurt !    Some  of  you  bring  a  lantern," 
said  the  now  captive  blacksmith. 
6 


122  TJic  You  Jig  Virginian. 

A  lantern  was  not  among  the  troopers'  equipments, 
but  one  -  of  them  soon  kindled  a  pine-knot,  and 
brought  it  to  the  bedside.  Hastily  removing  its 
scanty  clothing,  they  examined  every  square  inch  of 
the  child's  person,  and  —  found  it  as  sound  and  as 
round  as  a  silver  dollar.  And  so  it  is,  the  cry  of  a 
child  will  do  what  the  force  of  twelve  men,  armed 
to  the  teeth,  cannot  accomplish. 

But  the  boy  and  the  blacksmith  were  prisoners ; 
and  between  those  two,  who,  for  thirty  years,  had 
lived  only  one  life,  there  came  a  parting.  I  cannot 
describe  it ;  for  such  scenes  tug  too  hard  at  the 
heart-strings.  There  were  no  cries,  no  tears,  but  a 
short  prayer,  a  long  embrace,  and  then  an  agony  of 
silence.  Noiseless  but  deep  the  broad  river  runs, 
when  it  sinks  into  the  dark  ocean  forever. 


TJic  Captaiiis  Dream.  123 


CHAPTER    X. 

THE    captain's    DREAM. 

THE  first  gray  of  morning  was  streaking  the  east 
when  the  troop  rode  up  to  the  barn  of  the 
blacksmith.  Bidding  the  prisoners  dismount,  the 
Sergeant  led  the  way  into  the  building.  On  a  pile 
of  straw  in  a  corner  the  Captain  lay  sleeping,  his 
face  upturned  in  the  early  light,  and  over  it  a  smile 
playing,  like  that  of  a  child  when  dreaming.  Touch- 
ing him  gently  on  the  shoulder,  the  Sergeant  said, 
"  Cap'n,  we  has  got  the  blacksmith," 

He  opened  his  eyes,  raised  himself  on  his  elbow, 
and  in  a  half  dreamy  way,  answered,  "  All  right, 
all  right,  I  am  ready."  Then  looking  round,  he 
caught  sight  of  James,  and,  holding  out  both  his 
hands,  said,  fully  aroused,  "  What !  are  you  here,  my 
boy?     Come  to  me." 

James  went  to  him,  took  his  hands,  and  sat  down 
by  his  side.     "  Are  you  much  hurt  ? "  he  asked. 

"  O  no !  A  little  bruised  about  the  hips,  that  is 
all.  Meg  come  down  rather  hard,  and  the  pain  took 
away  my  senses.  Poor  thing,  she  '11  never  fall  again, 
I  should  n't  care,  if  thev  had  n't  killed  her !  " 


124  1^^^^  Young  Virginiafi, 

"  They ! "  So,  he  was  ignorant  that  Robert  had 
fired  the  bullet. 

"  When  shall  we  start  ? "  asked  the  Sergeant. 

"  Whenever  you  like.  When  the  men  are  rested. 
Send  breakfast  to  me  and  the  boy,  and  take  Mr. 
Holley  with  you.  Treat  him  with  respect  and  kind- 
ness." 

"And  how '11  ye  travil,  Cap'n?"  asked  the  Ser- 
geant. "  Der  ye  think  thet  leg  o'  yourn  kin  mount 
a  nag?" 

"  I  'm  afraid  not,  to-day.  Can  you  get  a  wagon 
and  harness  about  here  ? " 

"  I  have  them,  sir,"  said  the  blacksmith,  now 
speaking  for  the  first  time  since  his  capture.  "Of 
course  you  can  take  them,  but  I  gladly  consent  to  it." 

"  I  thank  you,"  answered  the  trooper,  "  I  am  sorry 
to  see  you  as  you  are,  sir." 

The  blacksmith  smiled,  but  made  no  reply,  and 
soon  followed  the  Sergeant  from  the  building. 

When  they  were  gone,  the  Captain  said  to  James, 
"Now,  my  boy,  tell  me  where  you  have  been,  and 
how  you  happened  to  be  taken.  Do  you  know  it  is 
lucky  you  were,  for  without  me  you  could  never  have 
got  to  the  Union  lines  ? " 

James  then  told  him  all  his  adventures,  except  his 
encounter  with  the  guide,  and  with  Robert  and  old 


TJie  Captain's  Dream.  125 

Katy.  AVhen  he  finished,  the  trooper  asked,  "  And 
did  you  see  anything  of  the  boy  ? " 

"Yes,  he  overtook  me  on  the  road  to  the  cabin. 
I  hope  he  is  by  this  time  at  home  with  his  grand- 
mother." 

He  hoped  this,  but  he  feared,  from  the  questions 
the  slave  boy  had  asked  the  guide  in  the  woods, 
that  he  was  even  then  following  the  trooper,  intent 
on  accomplishing  the  savage  work  in  which  he  had 
been  foiled.  James  thought  the  Captain  safe,  sur- 
rounded by  his  men ;  and  he  did  not  wish  to  wound 
him  by  disclosing  the  bitter  feelings  of  Robert ;  so 
to  avoid  the  subject  he  turned  the  conversation  into 
another  channel.  "  What  will  become  of  the  black- 
smith ? "  he  asked. 

"  He  will  be  hanged  without  judge  or  jury.  He 
has  been  a  spy,  and,  besides,  Mosby  has  some  pri- 
vate grudge  against  him.  It  is  a  pity,  for  he  is  an 
old  hero.  He  killed  three  of  our  men,  wounded 
another,  and  sent  poor  Meg  to  her  long  home.  We 
know  that,  because  the  man  with  him  had  only  a 
shot-gun." 

"  He  deserves  something  better  than  death,"  said 
James.  "  When  he  might  have  defended  himself,  he 
gave  up  to  save  the  lives  of  the  children." 

"  I   know,   and   I  'm   sorry ;  but  nothing  can  save 


126  The  Young  Virginian. 

him.  Words  would  be  wasted  on  Mosby.  He 
would  hang  him  for  killing  the  mare,  if  for  nothing 
else ;  for  he  loved  her  as  well  as  I  did." 

Again  changing  the  conversation,  —  this  time  be- 
cause it  was  painful,  —  James  said:  "I  noticed  her. 
She  seemed  a  noble  animaL" 

"  Noble !  She  was  the  best  horse  in  Virginia. 
She  knew  everything,  and  had  a  heart  like  a  woman. 
She  loved  me  as  a  dog  loves  his  master,  and  I  loved 
her  better  than  some  men  love  their  children.  For 
two  years  we  were  together,  day  and  night,  summer 
and  winter;  and  often,  when  I  have  laid  down  on 
the  march  in  a  pelting  storm,  she  has  stood  over  me 
all  night  to  keep  off  the  rain,  when  every  other 
horse  in  the  squad  has  been  on  the  ground  sleep- 
ing. Twice  she  saved  my  life,  and  once  the  whole 
battalion." 

"How  was  that?"  asked  the  boy,  catching  some 
of  the  trooper's  enthusiasm. 

"We  were  on  a  raid  into  Pennsylvania,  and  were 
chased  by  three  Yankee  regiments.  The  troop  had 
ridden  hard  for  forty  miles,  and,  thinking  there  was 
no  immediate  danger,  we  halted  just  after  midnight 
to  rest  the  men  and  horses.  Meg  then  belonged  to 
Mosby;  and,  hitching  her  to  a  rail,  he  lay  down  in 
a  crotch  of  the  fence,  and  fell   asleep  before  I  had 


TJic  Captain's  Dream.  127 

dismounted.  I  soon  noticed  the  mare  with  her 
mouth  at  Mosby's  throat,  shaking  him  hard,  and 
tearing  his  coat  into  ribbons.  I  pulled  her  away ; 
but  she  pawed  the  ground  violently,  and,  when  I 
attempted  to  tie  her,  came  at  me  like  a  hyena.  See- 
ing I  could  n't  manage  her,  I  woke  Mosby,  and 
pointing  to  the  breast  of  his  coat,  said,  '  Colonel,  in  a 
moment  more  Meg  would  have  spoiled  your  portrait ! ' 
He  looked  at  his  coat,  then  at  me,,  and,  half  asleep 
and  half  dead  with  fatigue,  roared  out  in  a  great  rage, 
'  Captain,  that  —  that  —  is  my  horse,  and  this  —  this 
—  is  my  face,  and  I'd  thank  ye  to  —  at  —  tend  to 
your  own  business.' 

"  I  flew  into  a  passion,  and  gave  him  a  volley  of 
hard  words ;  but,  in  the  midst  of  it,  he  put  his  ear  to 
the  ground,  and  said  :  '  Hark  !  What  is  that  1 '  I 
bent  down  and  listened,  and,  sounding  far  away, 
heard  the  faint  tread  of  cavalry.  It  was  the  Yan- 
kees, and  so  Meg's  ears  saved  the  battalion  !  When 
we  got  back  to  Virginia,  Mosby  gave  her  to  me, 
to  atone,  he  said,  for  not  treating  me  like  a  gentle- 
man." 

"It  is  not  strange  you  valued  her  highly,"  said 
James,  proceeding  to  devour  a  portion  of  the  hard- 
tack which  now  came  in  for  breakfast. 

"  Valued  her  !  "  echoed  the  trooper.     "  I  loved  her. 


128  The  Young  Virginian. 

and  she  made  a  better  man  of  me.  After  I  lost  the 
boy's  mother,  I  grew  hard  and  reckless :  but  when 
I  got  Meg,  my  nature  seemed  to  soften,  and  there 
came  back  to  me  some  human  feeling.  I  used  to 
let  her  run  loose  about  the  camp,  and  many  a  time, 
when  I  have  gone  off  by  myself,  and  sat  down  over- 
whelmed with  a  sense  of  utter  wretchedness,  she  has 
come  to  me,  put  her  face  down  to  mine  and  fondled 
me,  as  if  she  had  been  my  mother.  At  such  times  a 
look  so  tender  and  pitiful  would  come  into  her  eyes, 
that  I  would  fancy  she  had  a  human  soul,  and  was 
throwing  her  love  about  me,  to  keep  off  the  fiends 
that  were  hounding  me  to  madness.  It  was  not  so, 
but  then  I  did  not  understand,  for  my  eyes  were  shut 
and  my  mind  was  dark ;  but  now  I  know  there  is  a 
great  spirit  in  all  things,  which  answers  love  with 
love,  hate  with  hate ;  to  the  good  gives  comfort  and 
hope,  to  the  bad  only  despair  and  a  fearful  looking- 
for  of  retribution.  You  may  not  understand  this  now, 
but  you  will  when  you  are  a  man,  and  have  suffered." 
"Mother  has  told  me  so,  in  other  words,"  an- 
swered the  boy.  "  She  says  that  great  spirit  is  God, 
that  he  is  a  Father  to  all,  loves  all,^  even  the  worst, 
and  is  always  trying  to  do  them  good ;  but  that  bad 
men  do  not  know  it,  because  the  evil  in  their  hearts 
shuts  his  love  out,  and  makes  Him  seem  to  them  only 
a  God  of  terror  and  vengeance." 


The  Captains  Dream.  129. 

<■  It   is  so,   boy ;   and   I    might   have   been   saved 
all  these  years  of  wretchedness  and  sin,  if  some  one 
had  told  me  of  it  as  your  mother  has  told  you.     Han- 
nah felt  it  in  her  heart,  but  she  did  not  know  it  with 
her  mind.     I  thought  it  was  my  love  that  held  her 
up  ■  but  now  I  see  it  was  God's  love  which  made  her 
so  gentle,  so  patient,  and  so  forgiving  under  all  the 
misery  ray  evil  courses  brought  upon  her.     If  I  had 
known  it,  my  life  would  have  been  different ;  but, 
perhaps,  it  was  better  as  it  was  ;  for  my  experience 
may  enable  me  to  help  others.     The  soldier  must  be 
drilled,  the  workman  must  be  taught,  and  my  life 
may  have  taught  me  how  to  drag  such  men  as  I  have 
been  from  the  mire   of  vice  in  which  I  have  wal- 

lowed." 

"  It  has  ;  and  you  can  do  it,"  said  the  boy ;     you 

can  do  it ! 

"  I  will  if  God  gives  me  life  and  strength.     I  prom- 
ised I  would  last  night,  when  I  laid  here,  supposed  to 

be  dead."  ,  .„ 

"I  thought  you  were  dead.     I   watched  you  till 

I  saw  the  men  bring  in  a  board,  as  if  to  take  you  out 

to  be  buried." 

-Oyes,  I  remember;  that  was  only  to  bolster  my 
head,  so  I  might  get  the  air.  I  knew  all  that  hap- 
pened, though  I  seemed  unconscious." 


6* 


130  The  Yo7ing  Virginian. 

"How  could  that  be?" 

"  I  don't  know.  It  was  very  strange,  —  like  a 
dream.  No  doubt  it  was  a  dream  ;  but  it  seemed  as 
real  as  anything  that  ever  happened.  As  soon  as  I 
fell,  I  felt  my  senses  going.  I  spoke  to  you,  then  I 
prayed,  and  then  a  strong  hand  seemed  to  grasp  my 
arm,  as  if  to  draw  me  away.  I  struggled,  for  I  was 
not  willing  to  go  ;  but  soon  my  strength  gave  out, 
my  senses  swam,  and  all  became  darkness.  I  knew 
I  was  not  dead,  for  I  could  hear  the  voices  of  the 
men,  and  soon  could  see  them  taking  my  body  into 
the  barn  ;  yet  I  thought  I  was  not  there,  but  had 
another  body  just  like  the  one  I  had  left,  and  was 
floating  in  the  air  above  their  heads.  I  watched  them 
pour  the  brandy  down  my  mouth,  and  wet  my  face 
and  forehead,  and  heard  them  bewail  my  death  ;  and 
then  I  thought  I  would  go  back  and  say  a  kind  word 
to  the  poor  fellows.  I  tried  to  go,  but  the  strong 
hand  held  me,  and,  in  a  moment  more  the  clouds 
around  broke  away,  and  there  seemed  about  me 
another  sky  and  another  world,  all  filled  with  happy 
human  beings.  Waving  fields  and  blossoming  or- 
chards and  pleasant  gardens  and  great  woods  and 
running  streams  were  in  it ;  but  it  was  not  like  this 
world  any  more  than  the  sunshine  is  like  the  shadow. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  sunshine  of  which  this  world  is  the 


TJie  Captaiiis  Dream.  131 

shadow.  Soon,  I  thought,  a  voice  spoke  my  name, 
and,  turning  round,  I  saw  her,  —  the  boy's  mother,  — 
not  as  she  once  was,  but  as  she  is  now,  among  the 
angels.  I  shrank  away,  not  daring  to  look  at  her ; 
but  she  came  to  me,  took  me  in  her  arms  and  laid 
my  head  on  her  bosom. 

" '  These  many  years,'  she  said,  '  I  have  waited 
for  you,  and  soon  you  will  come  and  be  with  me 
forever.  It  is  given  you  to  see  our  glorious  home  ; 
for  in  the  great  struggle  you  at  last  have  conquered.' 
Then  she  led  me  away  past  pleasant  hamlets  and 
happy  homes,  far  into  the  blue  distance.  We  did 
not  walk,  we  did  not  fly,  but  we  moved  as,  per- 
haps, a  thought  moves,  when  it  pierces  the  deep 
heavens.  Soon  we  reached  a  beautiful  place,  where 
my  father  and  mother  were  waiting.  They  welcomed 
me  with  many  tears,  put  their  arms  about  my  neck, 
and  gave  me  their  blessing.  The  place  was  not  like 
any  I  had  ever  seen ;  and  yet  it  seemed  w^hat  my 
boyish  dreams  had  pictured  of  heaven.  Suddenly, 
as  we  stood  there,  I  thought  the  ground  opened  be- 
neath me,  and  I  saw  a  vast  ^arid  plain,  dotted  with 
innumerable  wretched  hovels.  They  were  not  like 
houses  on  the  earth,  but  were  transparent,  and  in 
every  one  a  score  of  haggard,  deathly-looking  men 
and  women  were  gaming  and  carousing.     My  father 


132  The  Voting  Virginian. 

spoke:  'They,  my  son/  he  said,  'are  what  you 
have  been ;  and  with  them  Hes  your  work  in  the 
future.  Those  who  come  up  here  must  toil  for  every 
step  of  their  progress.' 

"  '  Let  me  go  to  them/  I  said.  '  I  can  feel  what 
they  feel,  and  now  can  tell  them  what  they  may  at- 
tain to.' 

"  '  Not  now,'  he  answered,  '  your  life  on  the  earth 
is  not  yet  ended.' 

"  Then  I  thought  the  clouds  closed  about  me,  and 
—  I  awoke  on  this  heap  of  straw,  the  men  all  stand- 
ing around.  When  I  opened  my  eyes,  they  set  up 
a  wild  hurrah,  and  the  Sergeant  cried  out,  '  Glory  ! 
Hallelujah  !  we  thought  you  was  gone,  Capt'n  ; 
but  the  breath  o'  life  is  in  ye,  and  ye  '11  be  good 
yit  fur  forty  raidin's.' 

"  Then  I  knew  that  I  had  only  been  dreaming." 

"  It  was  a  strange  dream,"  said  James.  ''  Do  you 
think  it  had  any  meaning?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  it  w^as  a  glimpse  into 
the  unseen,  —  a  foreshadowing  of  my  future.  God 
sometimes  gives  such  things  to  men,  but  generally 
on  the  approach  of  death ;  and,  somehow,  I  feel 
that  my  life  here  is  nearly  over." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  the  boy.  "  There  is  so  much 
you  can  do.  You  have  talents  and  education  which 
fit  you  to  w^ork  in  reforming  others." 


The  Captains  Dream.  I33 

"I  neither  hope  nor  fear,"  answered  the  trooper. 
"I  am  resigned  to  whatever  may  happen.  That 
dream  has  unsealed  my  eyes,  and  shown  me  that 
God  is  all  right  and  all  goodness ;  and  I  am  con- 
tent that  he  shall  do  with  me  as  he  will,  and  only 
want  to  work  for  him,  here  or  there,  in  the  lowest 

station." 

So  that  wretched,  sin-laden  man  found  what  all 
the  world  is  seeking, -rest  and  peace, -which  no 
one  truly  finds  till,  like  him,  he  realizes  that  God  is 
"our  Father." 


134  ^^^^  Young  Virginian. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

ON    THE    ROAD. 

THEY  set  out  about  an  hour  after  breakfast. 
A  cavalry  horse  was  hitched  to  an  open  spring 
wagon,  and  in  it  —  a  portion  of  the  troop  going 
before,  and  the  remainder  bringing  up  the  rear  — 
James  and  the  Captain  rolled  slowly  along  toward 
Mosb'y's  camp  in  the  mountains.  The  Sergeant  rode 
on  one  side  of  the  vehicle,  and  the  blacksmith, 
mounted  on  a  blooded  animal  which  had  been  the 
property  of  one  of  the  men  he  had  killed,  rode  on 
the  other.  His  horse  was  tethered  to  the  vehicle, 
and  his  feet  were  secured  by.  a  rope  tied  under  the 
saddle. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  neither  hot  nor  cold,  but 
of  that  delightful  temperature  which  gives  a  keen 
zest  to  the  mere  act  of  living.  The  soft  breath  of 
July  stirred  the  grass,  and  the  birds  sang  in  the 
tall  trees  by  the  wayside.  A  rich  green  mantle 
covered  the  ground,  and  countless  flowers  bloomed 
in  the  meadows ;  but  fences  were  uptorn,  crops 
trodden     down,     dwellings     dismantled,     and     over 


On  the  Road.  135 

everything  hung  the  shadow  of  a  great  desolation. 
The  dark  devil  of  War  had  passed  that  way,  and 
left  his  bloody  footprint  on  every  field,  his  red  hand 
on  every  hamlet  and  homestead. 

About  noon  they  passed  the  ruins  of  a  large 
mansion.  Great  oaks  and  evergreens,  charred  up 
to  their  topmost  branches,  stood  before  its  doorway, 
and  a  profusion  of  roses,  jessamines,  and  honey- 
suckles, growing  free  and  wild,  made  a  fragrant 
wilderness  of  its  court-yard. 

"Whose  house  was  this?"  asked  the  Captain  of 
the  blacksmith,  who  till  then  had  ridden  along  in 
silence. 

"Judge  Burwell's.  It  was  burned  by  some  of 
your  men  about  a  year  ago ;  and  at  the  same  time 
they  murdered  two  of  his  children." 

The  Captain  winced  a  little,  but  answered  coolly, 
"  I  did  n't  hear  of  it,  —  I  was  away  in  Pennsylvania. 
How  was  it?" 

"  The  Judge  had  fled  to  the  Union  lines ;  and 
one  night  about  twenty  of  your  gang  came  to  the 
house  and  demanded  the  money  and  other  valu- 
ables of  his  family.  Mrs.  Burwell  gave  them  up  — 
everything,  even  the  wedding-ring  on  her  finger; 
and  your  men  left,  but  only  to  go  to  the  barn, 
gather  some  straw,  and  build  a  fire  at  every  corner 


136  TJie  YoiDig  Virginian. 

of  the  building.  Seven  persons  —  three  women 
and  four  children  —  were  in  the  house,  and  as 
soon  as  they  saw  the  blaze,  they  attempted  to 
escape  from  the  door;  but  your  devils  ordered  them 
back  with  the  threat  of  instant  shooting.  Mrs.  Bur- 
well,  from  one  of  the  windows,  begged  not  to  be 
burned  alive,  and  the  leader  told  her  to  come  out, 
promising  her  protection ;  but  she  had  no  sooner 
started  than  a  bullet  broke  her  arm  at  the  elbow. 
Seeing  it  was  death  by  burning  or  shooting,  they 
covered  themselves  with  beds  and  blankets,  and  at- 
tempted to  run  the  gauntlet.  Five  escaped,  —  the 
three  women,  and  two  of  the  children,  —  but  two 
fine  boys,  who  were  to  have  upheld  the  old  man's 
honored  name,  were  shot  dead  at  the  rear  of  the 
mansion." 

"  It  was  a  fiendish  act,"  said  the  Captain  ;  "  but, 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  I  have  heard  of  others  quite  as 
bad,  —  quite  as  worthy  of  hanging." 

The  blacksmith  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise, 
but  only  said :  "  It  was  fiendish,  and  unwise  into 
the  bargain.  If  you  go  on  at  this  rate,  you  '11  leave 
none  of  the  chivalry  alive  in  Virginia." 

"  How  so  ?  I  thought  we  all  were  chivalry,"  an- 
swered the  trooper,  smiling. 

"Of  the    bogus    sort,    not    of    the    genuine    race. 


On  the  Road.  137 

There  are  not  twenty  of  the  old  families  now  left  in 
the  State.  Your  leading  men  are  all  sprung  from 
sewers  and  dunghills.  Jeff  Davis's  father  ran  away 
from  Tennessee,  to  avoid  arrest  for  horse-stealing  ; 
Barnwell  Rhett's  was  an  Irish  clodhopper;  Robert 
Toombs's,  —  as  his  name  shows,  —  a  grave-digger  ; 
and  the  original  ancestor  of  the  Wise  family  was 
sold  for  a  hundred  pounds  of  tobacco  to  pay  his 
passage  from  an  English  prison!"* 

The  Captain  laughed  as  he  answered  :  "  You  are 
treading  on  my  corns,  Mr.  Holley.  I  profess  to 
belong  to  a  good  family ;  and,  seriously,  you  must 
know  that  the  South  has  some  of  the  best  blood  in 
the  world." 

"That  depends  on  what  you  call  good  blood," 
said  the  blacksmith.  "I  think  a  man  none  the  bet- 
ter because  his  grandfather  happened  to  hold  a  king's 
stirrup,  or  be  the  husband  of  a  king's  mistress." 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  breeding  goes  a  long  ways. 
You  admit  it  in  hounds  and  horses,  why  not  in  men 
and  women?" 

*  There  is  more  truth  than  poetry  in  these  statements  of  the 
blacksmith.  The  original  document  which  conveyed  the  an- 
cestor of  the  turbulent  ex-Governor  of  Virginia  to  a  planter  for 
enough  tobacco  to  pay  his  passage  from  a  London  jail  is  now 
in  the  library  of  Mr.  Peter  Force  at  Washington. 


138  TJie  Voting  Virgitiian. 

"I  do.  An  honest  father  makes  an  honest  son. 
I  boast  of  my  own  blood.  My  father  feared  God, 
paiH  his  debts,  and  made  the  best  horse-shoes  in 
this  county.  Character,  not  station,  the  man,  not 
his  clothes,  are  the  things  to  brag  about  in  an  an- 
cestor." 

"You  stole  that  idea  from  Cowper,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain, again  laughing.     "You  know"  he  said, 

*My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth ; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise,  — 
The  child  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies.' " 

"  That  can't  be  said  by  many  of  the  chivalry.  If 
accounts  are  true,  few  of  their  parents  knew  there 
was  any  such  region  as  heaven." 

"  Come,  come,  Mr.  Holley,"  responded  the  Cap- 
tain, gravely,  "I  am  a  good-natured  man,  and  you 
can  say  what  you  please ;  but  let  us  talk  as  we  think." 

"  I  do,"  answered  the  blacksmith.  "  I  say  what 
I  think,  and  should  do  it,  if  you  were  Jeff  Davis 
himself  I  know  that  nineteen  twentieths  of  the 
chivalry  are  sprung  from  beggars,  thieves,  and  cut- 
throats, who  were  transported  here  as  paupers  and 
criminals ;  and  that  the  best  blood  of  the  South  is 
with  the  honest  lower  classes,  the  *  mean  trash,' 
and   'poor  whites,'  as   you  call  them,  because  they 


On  the  Road.  139 

do  what  God  meant  they  should  do,  —  work  for  a 
living." 

"And  what,  in  your  calculation,  becomes  of  the 
Huguenots  and  Cavaliers  ? " 

"  There  were  n't  enough  of  them  to  salt  your  por- 
ridge. About  seven  hundred  Huguenots  were  sent 
over  to  Virginia  by  King  William.  They  founded 
a  town,  and  built  a  church,  which  is  still  standing, 
on  James  River ;  but  within  ten  years  they  left  there 
to  be  rid  of  bad  neighbors,  and  went  into  North 
Carolina,  w^here  they  settled  on  Pamlico  Sound, 
and  the  Neuse  and  Trent  Rivers.  About  the  same 
number  were  sent  to  South  Carolina  by  Charles  11. ; 
and  they  are  about  all  that  came  to  this  country.  For 
a  century  they  lived  by  themselves,  refusing  to  mix 
or  marry  with  the  other  planters ;  and  when  they 
finally  did,  they  sunk  to  their  level.  There  are  now 
not  over  a  dozen  old  Huguenot  names  among  the 
Southern  aristocracy ;  the  rest  are  where  they  ought 
to  be,  among  the  honest  working  people.  As  for 
the  Cavaliers,  —  they  were  mostly  seedy  adventurers, 
broken-down  gentry,  or  portionless  younger  sons  of 
my  Lord  Played-out,  who  begged  for  his  dinner. 
They  left  their  country  for  their  country's  good  ;  but 
there  w-as  not  a  baker's  dozen  of  them  all  told, — 
not  enough  to  do  any  good  or  any  harm  anywhere." 


140  The  Young  Virginian. 

"  You  seem  to  talk  by  the  book,"  said  the  Captain, 
smiling  incredulously. 

"  I  do,"  answered  the  blacksmith.  "  I  spent  a 
week  of  nights  among  the  old  books  in  the  Judge's 
library,  expressly  to  get  facts  to  floor  our  popinjay 
of  a  representative,  who  used  to  brag  about  his  an- 
cestors as  if  they  were  first  cousins  to  the  Angel 
Gabriel.  I  got  the  facts,  and  they  floored  him.  I 
tell  you,  the  first  settlers  of  the  Sputh  were  a  de- 
cidedly sorry  set." 

"They  must  have  been  shabby  enough,  by  your 
showing." 

"  They  were  the  very  offscouring  of  all  things. 
The  early  settlers  of  Georgia  were  from  the  Eng- 
lish jails  and  poor-houses.  The  promoters  of  Ogle- 
thorpe's colony  openly  said  in  the  English  prints  : 
'  Our  prisons  are  full  of  miserable  men,  useless  to  all 
the  purposes  of  society.  What  shall  we  do  with  these 
miserable,  useless,  pernicious  inhabitants  ?  We  will 
erect  a  new  kingdom  out  of  the  refuse  of  our  own 
people  and  the  subjects  of  neighboring  nations.' 
Nine  tenths  of  the  early  settlers  of  South  Carolina 
were  wretched,  half-starved  peasants  from  the  bogs 
of  Ireland.  They  came  over  in  such  swarms  that  the 
northern  part  of  that  country  was  almost  depopulated. 
And  as  to  Virginia,  for  fifty    years  it  was  a  penal 


On  the  Road.  141 

colony,  and  into  it  was  emptied  all  the  filth  of  Lon- 
don.    Fifty  thousand   convicts   came  here;  and    one 
half  of  our   'first   families'    to-day   bear   the   names 
which  those  men  left  on  the  records  of  the  Old  Bai- 
ley.    An  English  historian  who  wrote  a  hundred  and 
twenty  years  ago  said:  'Our  plantations  in  America, 
New  England  excepted,  have  been  generally  settled, 
first,    by   malcontents   with   the  administration   from 
time   to  time  ;    second,  by   fraudulent  debtors,   as  a 
refuge  from  their  creditors,  and  by  convicts  and  crim- 
inals who  chose   transportation  rather  than  death.'* 
The    malcontents    and    Huguenots    were    the    right- 
eous men  who  saved  this  Sodom.     They  salted,  and 
so  saved  the  lump ;  but  there  were  not  enough  of 
them  to  leaven   such  an  immense  mass  of  filth." 

"Well,"  said  the  Captain,  laughing  again,  "you 
have  floored  me,  as  you  floored  Boteler.  You  have 
day  and  date  at  your  fingers'  ends ;  so  you  must  be 
right.  By  your  account,  none  of  us  can  brag  of  our 
ancestors ;  we  are  all  sprung  from  sorr>'  vagabonds." 

*  Dr.  William  Douglass,  1749-  Those  who  like  to  wade  in 
muddy  water,  and  desire  to  trace  a  dirty  stream  to  its  dirty 
source,  may  find  something  more  about  the  origin  of  the 
"chivalry"  in  Martin's  and  Hawks's  Histories  of  North  Caro- 
lina, Carroll's  South  Carolina,  Campbell's  Virginia,  and  White's 
Historical  Collections  of  Georgia. 


142  TJie  Young  Virghiiati, 


♦ 


"  Not  all  of  us.  These  men  were  the  early  settlers, 
who  came  here  first,  took  up  the  best  lands,  founded 
large  estates,  and  became  the  fathers  of  the  chivalry. 
The  most  of  us  are  sprung  from  the  later  settlers,  — 
the  brave,  hardy,  industrious  Scotch,  Scotch-Irish, 
and  English  yeomen,  who  tilled  the  land,  loved  their 
wives,  taught  their  children,  'feared  God,  and  kept 
their  powder  dry.'  You  can  tell  one  from  the  other 
at  this  day,  as  easily  as  you  can  tell  a  Morgan  horse 
from  a  monkey." 

"How?" 

"  One  obeys  the  laws,  and  does  something ;  works 
with  his  hands  or  his  head  for  his  daily  bread.  The 
other  breaks  all  laws,  and  does  nothing,  either 
steals  or  gambles  for  a  living,  or  wrings  it  from 
the  bloody  sweat  of  his  fellows,  —  men  who,  in  all 
that  God  counts  manhood,  are  as  much  above  him 
as  the  Apostle  John  was  above  the  traitor  Judas." 

"  Well,  the  adage  is,  '  Like  father,  like  son,'  — 
there  may  be  some  truth  in  what  you  say." 

"  Some  truth !  It  is  all  truth.  The  chivalry  are 
only  the  felons  dressed  up  in  fine  clothes,  put  astride 
of  a  blooded  horse,  and  loaded  down  with  the  evil 
deeds  of  two  centuries.  They  have  shown  the  con- 
vict's nature  all  through  our  history;  and  yet  they, 
the  vilest  white  men  on  this  planet,  have  ruled  the 


On  the  Road,  143 

South  for  two  hundred  years,  and  this  whole  country 
for  sixty." 

"Thet  ar*  true,  Mr.  Holley,"  now  said  the  Ser- 
geant, who  had  Hstened  with  interest  to  the  whole 
of  this  conversation.  "  But  this  war  ar'  a  gwine  ter 
end  thet  sort  o'  business.  It  '11  guv  a  chance  ter  the 
pore  man  as  does  the  wuck,  and  fights  the  battles." 

"  Well,  it  won't  if  your  side  wins,"  answered  the 
blacksmith.  "  It  will  tie  you  down,  hand  and  foot ; 
and  you  '11  not  get  up  till  doomsday." 

"Ye  hain't  right  thar,  sartin,"  said  the  Sergeant, 
smiling ;  "  and  I  reckon  ye  'se  wrong  too  'bout  whar 
the  chivalry  cum  frum." 

"  How  so  ? "  asked  the  blacksmith.  "  Where  did 
they  come  from  ?  " 

"I  don't  know;  but  I  'se  yered  the  old  darky's 
account,  and  I  reckon  it  'r  truer  nur  the  history. 
He  says  it  wus  this  away :  '  Ye  sees,  all  de  fuss  folk 
—  Adam,  and  Eve,  and  Cain,  and  Abel,  and  Gen- 
esis, and  Deutetonomy,  and  all  dem  ole  fellers  — 
wus  brack.  But  Cain  he  kill  his  brudder  wid  a  big 
club,  —  his  walkin'-stick,  —  and  de  Lord  he  kim  down 
ter  see  'bout  it,  and  he  say  ter  Cain :  "  Cain,  whar 
am  dy  brudder?" 

" '  Den  Cain  he  put  out  his  lip,  and  he  say,  "  I 
doan't  know,  —  what  'm  you  axin'  me  fur  ?  I  hain't 
my  brudder's  keeper  !  " 


144  ^^^^  Voting  Virginia7i. 

" '  Den  de  Lord  he  gits  in  'arnest,  and  he  stomps 
on  de  groun',  and  he  say  :  "  Cain  !  you  Cain,  whar 
am  dy  brudder,  —  I  say  you,  Cain,  whar  am  dy  brud- 
der  Abel?" 

" '  Now,  de  way  de  Lord  say  dat  frighten  Cain, 
and  he  turn  white  in  de  face,  —  whiter  dan  ginned 
cotton,  —  dat  wus  de  mark  de  Lord  sot  on  him,  — 
and  de  hull  race  ob  Cain  hab  been  white  eber  sense. 
Den  Cain  he  wus  druv  out  o'  Paradise,  and  went  and 
settled  in  de  land  ob  Nod ;  and  from  dar  he  moved 
inter  Soufh  Car'lina,  and  —  dat  's  whar  all  de  chiv- 
urly  kim  frum.'  "  * 

A  hearty  laugh  followed  this  anecdote,  and  it  ended 
the  conversation.  About  an  hour  after  nightfall  the 
troop  halted  for  the  night  at  an  old  church  near  a 
cross-roads. 

*  This  tradition,  in  a  garbled  form,  found  its  way  into  print, 
about  ten  years  ago,  in  a  book  whose  title  I  do  not  now  re- 
member. However,  the  Sergeant  cannot  be  accused  of  plagi- 
arism ;  for  I  myself  heard  it  at  the  South  when  a  boy,  and 
it  has  been  current  —  and  widely  believed  —  among  the  South- 
ern negroes  for  more  than  a  centurj'.  The  reader,  of  course, 
will  believe  it  or  not,  at  his  option.  I  simply  insist  that  it  is 
nearer  the  truth  than  the  generally  received  account,  which 
makes  the  chivalry  the  descendants  of  the  Cavaliers  and  Hu- 
guenots. 


The  old  Meeting-House.  145 

CHAPTER    XII. 

THE    OLD    MEETING-HOUSE. 

THE  old  church  was  on  a  spur  of  the  Blue 
Ridg-e,  a  few  miles  to  the  south  of  Flint  Hill, 
and  at  a  point  where  one  of  the  ribs  of  the  long 
mountain  range  falls  away  to  the  rolling  ground  below, 
known  as  the  Piedmont  region.  A  circuit  of  country, 
broad  as  the  eye  can  take  in,  is  there  covered  with 
dense  forests;  and,  scattered  here  and  there  among 
them,  are  little  openings,  where  nestle  the  rude  huts 
of  the  simple  dwellers  in  that  region. 

They  are  a  homespun  people,  knowing  little  of 
books,  having  crude  notions  of  life,  and  forcing  only 
a  scanty  subsistence  from  the  woods  and  streams 
with  their  nets  and  rifles,  or  from  sorry  patches  of 
corn  and  tobacco,  with  hoes  as  heavy  as  a  man  can 
handle,  and  as  old  as  the  days  of  the  first  Abraham  ; 
but  they  speak  the  truth,  practise  virtue,  respect  one 
another's  rights,  love  their  country  — as  only  those 
love  it  for  whom  it  has  done  nothing,  and  may  — 
in  the  scales  by  which  Infinite  Justice  measures 
the""worth  of  men  — outweigh  all  the  chivalr>-  that 
7  J 


146  TJie  Young  Virginian, 

have  lived  since  the  first  CavaUer  went  on  horse- 
back. 

It  is  a  stony,  sterile  region ;  but  there  these  sim- 
ple people  lived,  content  and  happy,  until  the  con- 
script officer  came  among  them,  and  tore  them  from 
their  rude  homes  to  do  battle  against  their  country. 
Since  their  oldest  man  was  a  boy,  they  had  come 
every  Sunday  to  that  little  church  to  hear  the  glad 
tidings  from  the  other  world,  and  —  the  latest  news 
from  this,  read  after  service  by  the  country  parson 
from  the  country  newspaper;  but  now  they  were 
scattered  far  and  wide,  some  in  Northern  prisons, 
and  some  on  bloody  fields,  seeing  this  strange  world 
about  which  they  had  wondered,  or  sleeping  the  quiet 
sleep  which  on  this  earth  knows  no  waking. 

And  their  fate  was  written  on  the  rude  buildii^ 
where  they  had  worshipped.  It  was  a  ruin,  desolate 
and  bare  as  a  tree  which  has  been  blasted  by  the 
lightning.  Its  floor  was  uptorn,  its  roof  partly  fallen 
in,  and  its  battered  door  rusting  idly  on  its  hinges. 
Around  its  peaceful  walls  blood  had  flowed,  and 
fierce  men  had  struggled,  scarring  its  crumbling  logs 
with  deadly  missiles,  and  doing  the  deeds  of  hell 
within  the  very  vestibule  of  heaven. 

The  troop  alighted,  and,  tethering  their  horses 
among  the  trees,   entered  the  old  building.     A  few 


The  old  Meeting-House.  147 

rough  benches  were  scattered  about  its  interior,  and 
at  one  end  was  a  huge  chimney,  at  the  other,  a 
low  platform  on  which  had  stood  the  rude  pulpit. 
Spreading  some  blankets  on  this  platform,  the  ran- 
gers laid  the  Captain  upon  them,  and  then,  gathering 
some  pine  knots  from  the  surrounding  woods,  built 
a  fire  on  the  hearth,  and  over  it  hung  a  couple  of 
camp-kettles,  filled  with  rye  coffee,  and  borrowed 
bacon.  When  the  repast  was  ready,  they  clustered 
about  the  fire,  on  the  ground,  or  on  the  rough  log 
benches,  and  made  a  hearty  meal,  washing  it  down 
with  water  from  a  spring  hard  by,  or  with  a  more 
fiery  fluid  which  they  carried  in  the  canteens  that 
were  slung  over  their  shoulders. 

A  few  of  them  were  of  what  is  called  at  the 
South  "  the  better  class  of  society "  ;  but  much  the 
larger  number  were  evidently  young  workingmen, 
sons  of  honest  farmers,  who  had  been  tempted  to 
this  wild  life  by  the  love  of  adventure  or  the  pros- 
pect of  plunder.  Some  of  them  had  stolid,  expres- 
sionless faces,  and  some  were  rough  and  reckless 
looking  ;  but  nearly  all  seemed  careless  and  good- 
natured,  fond  of  fun  and  frolic,  and  not  the  aban- 
doned characters  we  are  accustomed  to  think  of 
when  we  speak  of  Mosby's  rangers.  I  suspect  that 
very  few  people  are  as  bad  as  they  are  painted  by 


148  The  Yoimg  Virginian. 

their  enemies  ;  and  I  have  found,  under  the  rough 
exterior  of  some  of  the  worst  of  men,  often  slumber- 
ing the  best  feelings  of  humanity. 

When  the  rangers  had  gathered  about  the  blazing 
fire,  which,  without  giving  out  much  heat,"  lit  up 
every  nook  and  cranny  of  the  ruined  building,  one 
of  them  said  to  the  blacksmith,  who  had  thrown 
himself  on  the  ground  in  a  corner,  "  Come  yere, 
Mr.  HoUey.  Hev  suthin'  ter  eat ;  ye  '11  need  all 
the  muscle  ye  kin  muster  afore  this  time  ter-mor- 
rer." 

The  blacksmith  rose,  and,  coming  forward  slowly, 
—  for  the  cords  had  been  tightened  about  his 
ankles,  —  took  a  seat  on  one  of  the  rough  benches 
near  the  Sergeant.  As  he  came  out  into  the  fire- 
light, the  Captain  noticed  that  his  wrists  also  were 
bound,  and  called  out  to  the  men,  "Undo  his 
hands.  Don't  tie  him  as  you  would  an  ox  you 
were  going  to  slaughter." 

The  blacksmith  smiled  at  this  allusion,  but  simply 
thanked  the  trooper  as  the  men  undid  the  ligatures. 
While  this  was  being  done,  the  man  who  had  first 
spoken,  said  to  the  Sergeant,  — 

"I  say,  Sargint,  doan't  ye  remember  this  ole 
meetin'-'ouse,  and  the  brush  we  hed  yere  with  the 
Yankee  calvary?" 


The  old  Meeting-House.  149 

"  I  does.  I  never  shill  forgit  it,  nur  the  boy's 
look,  ef  I  lives  ter  be  as  old  as  Methuselah,"  an- 
swered the  Sergeant. 

"  Which  one,  —  ourn,  or  the  t'other  ?  " 

"  The  t'other.  When  we  come  in  yere  ter-night, 
while  uver)'thing  war  dark,  afore  the  fire  war  kin- 
dled, I  thort  I  seed  him  jest  as  plain  as  ef  he  war 
living." 

"  Seed  him  !    Whar  ?  "  echoed  three  or  four  voices. 

"  Off  thar,  in  the  corner,"  and  —  while  with  star- 
tled look,  every  eye  turned  in  the  direction  —  the 
Sergeant  pointed  to  a  ragged  opening  in  the  wall, 
where  lay  a  little  heap  of  earth,  on  which  some  thin, 
sickly  grass  was  growing. 

"  Yas,"  said  the  other  speaker,  "  thet  's  whar  the 
Cap'n's  lad  war  buried.  P'r'aps  the  t'other  one 
haunts  the  place,  'case  the  death  of  thet  boy  guv 
him  the  halter." 

"  How  was  it }  Why  was  he  hung  ?  "  now  asked 
another  of  the  rangers. 

"  Well,  ye  sees,"  said  the  Sergeant,  "  Captain  Slack 
and  some  thirty  on  us  hed  been  a  scoutin'  in  the 
Valley;  and  one  day,  about  two  year  ago,  come  yere 
ter  camp  fur  the  night,  jest  afore  sundown.  We 
did  n't  post  no  pickets,  'case  we  had  no  idee  thar 
was    ary   Yankees   round ;    but   we    hed  n't   more  'n 


150  The  Youftg  Virginia?!. 

sot  down  ter  our  grub,  afore  fifty  o'  the  devils 
come  outer  us,  stole  our  nags,  and  peppered  us 
wuss  nur  ye  uver  peppered  yer  bacon.  Howsum- 
uver,  luckly  like,  we  'd  took  our  carbines  inter  the 
building,  and  arter  the  fust  surprise,  squatted  ahind 
the   logs   and   guv  them   as   good  as  they  sent,  and 

—  a  little  better.  They  stood  up  like  men ;  but 
thirty  ahind  logs  is  more  'n  fifty  afore  'em,  and 
arter  a  while  they  skedaddled.  They  killed  one  o' 
us,  —  the  Captain's  son ;  and  we  winged  one  o' 
them,  —  shot  him  from  his  nag  jest  as  the  rest 
broke  away  inter  the  timber.     He  war  a  loikely  lad, 

—  not  more  'n  seventeen,  —  with  soft  hands,  a  white 
skin,  and  a  face  jest  loike  a  'ooman's.  The  hit 
war  a  bad  'un,  and  the  boy  war  apt  ter  die  any- 
how ;  but  the  Captain  went  clean  mad  with  the 
death  uv  his  son,  and  swore  we  should  hang  him. 
I  helt  out  ag'in  it,  sayin'  the  lad  war  a  dyin' ;  but 
it  war  n't  no  use,  it  only  made  the  Captain  hurry 
up  the  faster.  He  rigged  a  halter  out  o'  the  boy's 
own  bridle,  and  then  —  hung  him  ter  the  limb  uv 
a  tree  yonder,  I  holped  the  boy  ter  the  tree, — 
out  o'  pity  I  done  it,  —  and  spoke  kind  ter  him 
when  they  was  a  fixin'  on  the  halter.  He  said  no 
words,  but  he  guv  me  a  look,  —  jest  sich  a  look 
as   my  mother   guv   me  when   she   war   dyin'.     The 


The  old  Meeting-House,  1 5  i 

same  face  and  the  same  look  I  seed  when  I  come 
in  yere,  as  plain  as  I  seed  'era  thet  minnit." 

"  Your  memory  got  into  your  eyes,  Sergeant," 
said  the  blacksmith.  "That  was  all.  That  boy 
died  for  his.  country  ;  and  those  who  die  so,  are  at 
rest  after  death  —  in  heaven." 

"And  don't  you  believe  the  spirits  of  the  dead 
visit  the  earth } "  now  asked  another  man,  —  one 
of  the  more  intelligent  looking  of  the  troop.  "  What 
are  they  but  men  ?  and  don't  they  retain  the  feelings 
of  men  ?  We  linger  in  memory  around  certain 
places  j  and  why  don't  they,  in  person,  since  they 
are  disembodied,  and  can  travel  like  thought,  —  in 
a  flash  all  over  creation." 

"  All  the  ghosts  ever  heard  of,"  answered  the 
blacksmith,  "have  been  supposed  to  be  spirits  of 
murdered  men,  haunting  the  spots  where  they  were 
murdered.  That  can't  be,  if  spirits  have  the  feel- 
ings of  men.  We  do  not  seek  places  where  we 
have  suffered,  —  our  memories  cling  to  things  with 
pleasant,  not  with  terrible  associations." 

"  And  may  not  the  associations  here  be  pleasant 
to  the  Yankee  boy  ? "  said  the  other.  "  Is  not  the 
Sergeant  here  ?  and  did  n't  he  speak  kindly  to  him, 
and  stand  by  him  when  he  was  dying?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Sergeant,  who    evidently  thought 


152  TJi.e  Voting  Virginian. 

the  vision  a  reality.  "  And,  I  tell  ye,  when  I  come 
in  yere,  he  guv  me  the  same  look  —  half  sorry,  half 
lovin'  —  thet  he  guv  me  the  last  minit  he  sot  eyes 
on  me." 

"  Pshaw !  It  's  all  humbug,"  now  said  another  of 
the  troopers.  "  Fur  why  ?  'case  the  Yankee  boy 
would  n't  leave  heaven,  if  he  could,  it's  too  com- 
fortable a  place  ;  and  he  could  n't  leave  Tophet,  ef 
he  would,  —  'case  thar  's  no  gittin'  out  o'  thar,  ef 
it  ar'  arything  loike  the  place  I  onst  got  inter." 

"  And  what  sort  uv  a  place  war  thet  ? "  asked  the 
Sergeant  with  an  uncertain  sm.ile,  as  if  curious  and 
yet  fearful  to  hear. 

"Well,  ye  sees,  I  w^us  ter  a  camp-meetin'  down 
ter  North  Carolina,  whar  I  w^us  raised,  and  a  long- 
eared,  long-haired  specimen  uv  a  critter  had  been  a 
sendin'  all  on  us  as  did  n't  shout  '  Glor}- ! '  sing 
through  the  nose,  and  go  inter  conniption  fits  un- 
der his  preachin',  down  ter  the  hot  place ;  which  he 
said  was  hot  a'r,  hot  water,  hot  coals,  hot  rocks,  hot 
lata,  and  hot  volcanoes,  all  mixed  together  and  poured 
inter  a  big  crater,  shaped  loike  a  tea-kettle,  and  big 
as  the  univarse,  and  simmerin',  and  boilin',  and  burn- 
in'  forever. 

"  I  laughed  at  the  idee,  fur  I  know'd  the  feller 
did  n't  know  no  more  'bout   it   nur  I  done  ;   and  I 


The  old  Mccting-Hoiise.  153 

took  my  supper,  and  lay  down  ter  sleep  in  one  on 
the  tents.  The  supper  was  cold  corn  pone,  and 
half-sp'iled  bacon,  and  thet,  or  the  sarmunt,  must 
ha'  sot  hard  on  my  stomach ;  fur,  I  hed  n't  more  'n 
got  asleep,  'fore  I  woke  up  in  the  very  place  whar 
the  Parson  had  sent  the  sinners.  Sure  'nuff,  it  u^ar 
a  hot  place,  — hotter 'n  fire,  and  yit  colder 'n  Green- 
land, and  darker  'n  pitch,  and  yit  lighter  'n  forty  sun- 
shines,—so  light  thet  a  pious  man  could  ha'  read 
the  Bible  in  it  without  glasses. 

"  All  around  its  sides  wus  big  holes  loike  ovens  ; 
and  inter  'em,  jest  so  fast. as  they  come  in,  the  devils 
wus  a  throwin'  the  sinners.  One  on  'em  grabbed 
me,  but  I  fit  him  off,  and,  somehow,  got  round  ter 
the  very  middle  uv  the  volcano." 

"  I  kin  b'lieve  thet,"  said  the  Sergeant.  "  I  'se 
allers  said  ye  wus  the  best  fighter  in  the  troop."  . 

"  Thanks  ye,  Sargint,"  said  the  man.  "  My  fight- 
in'  powers  stood  me  in  then,  no  mistake;  and  I 
reckon  none  on  us,  when  we  gits  ter  thet  ar'  place, 
won't  be  sorry  he  b'longed  ter  J^Iosby's  gang.  The 
practice  the  Gunnel  guvs  us  '11  come  right  handy, 
down  thar." 

No  one  seemed  to  relish  the  idea  of  pursuing  his 
vocation  in  so  warm  a  latitude,  and  the  trooper  went 
on  with  his  dream. 
7* 


154  ^f^^  Yoimg  Virgijiia?z. 

"  Wall,  as  I  said,  somehow  I  got  ter  the  middle 
uv  the  place,  and  right  thar  wus  a  oven  bigger 'n 
all  the  rest,  as  the  king  devil  wus  a  tendin'.  He 
wus  a  pitchin'  in  the  miserable  sinners,  as  fast  as 
they  come  along;  and  I  could  see  thar  arms,  and 
legs,  and  bodies,  a-twistin'  and  squirmin'  about  in 
the  hot  fire,  —  fryin'  and  roastin',  but  nuver  burnin' 
up,  'case,  ye  sees,  thar  flesh  and  blood  war  n't  mortal. 
Fur  long  I  could  n't  git  my  eyes  from  the  fire,  fur 
it  charmed  me  loike  a  snake ;  but  at  last  I  looked 
round  at  the  king  devil,  and  —  would  you  b'heve 
it  —  it  was  the  long-haired  parson  hisself!  I  wus 
dumfounded  fur  a  minnit,  but  then  I  helt  out  my 
hand  ter  him,  and  says  I,  '  Hullo !  old  Longlocks, 
be  this  ye  ?  I  thort  ye  wus  up  thar  ter  the  camp- 
meeting  ? ' 

" '  Wall,   I  wus,'  he  said,   guvin'  me  a  warm  grip, 

—  his  hand  wus  fire.  'I  stays  up  thar  in  the  day- 
time, a-ropin'  on  'em  in ;  but  I  comes  down  yere 
at  night  ter  see  they  gits  well  roasted.' 

"  A  few  more  civil  words  passed  atween  us,  and 
then  he  grabbed  me  by  the   shoulder.     I  fit  hard, 

—  ye  'd  better  b'leive  it,  — but  it  war  n't  no  use.  He 
had  the  strength  uv  forty  men,  and,  in  less  nur  a 
minnit,  had  me  in  the  oven.  The  roastin'  woke 
me  up,  and  the  sweat  was  a-rollin'  off  me  jest  loike 


The  old  Mcetiiig-Housc.  155 

a  river.  Well,  the  next  day  I  got  up  in  the  camp- 
meetin',  and  telled  the  dream.  It  broke  up  the 
meetin',  and  thet  parson  —  he  nuver  ^vus  seed  ag'in 
in  them  parts,  I  reckon." 

When  the  man  ended,  a  suppressed  laugh  went 
around  the  benches,  but  it  was  as  low  and  broken 
as  the  whistle  of  a  boy  when  he  is  trying  to  bol- 
ster up  his  courage.  The  wild  and  horrible  dream, 
or  the  supposed  apparition  of  the  murdered  boy, 
had  worked  on  the  untutored  imaginations  of  those 
ignorant  men,  terrifying  them  more  than  they  would 
have  been  willing  to  acknowledge. 

The  blacksmith  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence 
which  followed.  "  It  was  a  dreadful  dream,  stran- 
ger," he  said ;  "  but  I  have  heard  much  more  dread- 
ful sermons.  They  have  a  bad  effect  on  the  minds 
of  the  ignorant ;  for  they  make  them  believe  there 
are  such  places  in  the  universe,  and  that  God,  who 
is  all  love,  delights  in  the  torment  of  his  creatures. 
It  is  not  so.  God  is  a  father.  He  corrects  us  as 
we  correct  our  children,  to  reform,  not  to  destroy 
us.  We  suffer  no  more,  here  or  hereafter,  than  is 
needed  to  discipline  us  for  the  great  work  of  life, 
which  in  this  world  has  only  its  beginning." 

"Then  ye  don't  b'lieve  in  the  place  the  parsons 
tell  on?"  said  the  Sergeant,  drawing  a  long  breath, 
as  if  relieved  of  a  nightmare. 


156  TJie  Young  Virginian. 

"Not  in  a  burntng  lake  and  everlasting  fire. 
Those  are  figurative  expressions.  Bad  men  no  doubt 
suffer  after  death ;  and  the  torment  they  endure  is 
probably  as  hard  for  the  spirit  to  bear,  as  life  in  a 
burning  lake  would  be  for  the  body.  But  God  does 
not  bring  it  upon  them.  They  bring  it  upon  them- 
selves, by  living  out  of  harmony  with  nature  and 
the  laws  of  God.  Take  away  a  drunkard's  drink, 
and  he  will  tell  you  he  is  in  hell.  Let  a  man  bring 
upon  himself  any  severe  disease,  and  he  will  sufter 
terribly.  Why?  Because  he  has  abused  his  body, 
acted  contrary  to  its  laws,  and  so  must  feel  the  suffer- 
ing which  is  the  consequence  of  its  disorder.  As  it 
is  with  the  body,  so  it  is  with  the  spirit;  only  the 
spirit,  being  finer  and  more  sensitive  than  the  body, 
feels  more  keenly  and  suffers  more  intensely." 

"And  what  must  a  man  do,  Mr.  Holley,"  asked 
the  Sergeant,  "to  keep  hisself  in  order?" 

"  Act  up  to  his  highest  idea  of  right ;  set  that  above 
money,  friends,  life,  everything,  —  even  his  children. 
He  must  sow  what  he  wants  to  reap,  and  if  he  sows 
good  seed,  he  will  reap  a  hundred-fold  —  in  the  gar- 
den of  God  forever." 

The  old  man's  face  took  on  a  strange  glow  as  he 
said  this,  —  a  glow  not  of  the  fire-light ;  and  the  rude 
men  around  stared  at  him  with  a  look  of  mingled 
awe  and  admiration. 


The  old  Meetiitg-House.  i57 

"What's  right  ter  one  hain't  right  ter  another," 
said  the  Sergeant  after  a  moment.  "You  and  us 
differ  'bout  thet,  Mr.  Holley,  or  you  would  n't  be 
a-wearin'  them  bracelets." 

"True.  Every  man  must  go  by  his  own  con- 
science. Yours  tells  you  it  is  right  to  fight  against 
your  country ;  mine  tells  me  it  is  wrong,  that  what 
God  hath  joined  together  no  man  should  put  asunder. 
I  am  going  to  die  for  being  of  this  opinion ;  but  in 
that  I  reckon  myself  no  better  than  you.  I  simply 
give  my  life  for  what  I  think  is  right;  you  every 
day  risk  yours  for  the  same   thing." 

No  one  spoke  for  a  few  moments ;  but  after  a  while 

the  blacksmith,  looking  up  with  a  quiet  smile,  said, 

"Speaking    of    camp-meetings    reminds   me   of   one 

I  went  to  when   I  was  Uttle  more  than  a  boy.     It 

was  held  in  a  woods  not  far  from  my  father's  house, 

and  a  thousand  people  had  been  attending  it  all  the 

week;  but  I    had  not  gone,  for  I   had  a  prejudice 

against   the   high-pressure   religion  which   is   usually 

found  at  such  places.     I  had  noticed  that  ever}'thing 

takes  its  time  to  grow,  and  that  what  comes  quickly 

generally  goes  quickly  ;  besides,  I  thought  I  should 

be  serving  God  quite  as  well  by  making  horse-shoes 

as  by  groaning  and  shouting  like  an  organ-bellows. 

But  on  the  next  Sunday,  our  little  church  was  closed, 


158  The  Young  Virginian. 

and,  having  nowhere  else  to  go,  I  went  to  the 
camp-meeting. 

"  A  half-dozen  preachers  were  on  the  platform,  and 
the  people  were  scattered  about  under  the  trees,  lis- 
tening to  one  of  them,  who  was  holding  forth  in  a 
voice  like  a  clap  of  thunder. 

"  He  was  a  long,  lank,  dyspeptic-looking  man,  and 
the  disorder  in  his  stomach  seemed  to  have  got 
into  his  head ;  for  he  stormed  away  in  a  terrible  fash- 
ion, using  the  most  extravagant  gestures,  and  lan- 
guage that  would  have  been  thought  the  worst  pro- 
fanity, if  spoken  anywhere  out  of  a  pulpit.  At  first 
he  got  upon  the  immensity  of  the  universe,  the 
height  of  the  mountains,  the  length  of  the  rivers, 
and  the  size  of  the  great  lakes,  —  all  of  which  he 
mentioned  by  name,  —  and  then,  at  a  single  bound, 
came  down  on  the  sinners.  He  spoke  of  the  enor- 
mity of  sin,  and  the  awful  fate  of  the  sinner,  as 
if  the  subject  were  pleasant  to  him  ;  and  then  de- 
scribed the  bad  place,  very  much  as  our  friend  here 
saw  it  in  his  dream.  When  he  got  down  there  he 
imitated  'the  cries  and  groans  of  the  wucked  as  natu- 
rally as  if  he  had  spent  a  lifetime  among  them. 

"In  the  course  of  the  sermon  the  larger  part  of 
the  people  got  worked  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
excitement,  and   on   nearly  every  face  was  the  very 


Tlic  old  Meet i fig-House.  159 

agony  of  despair.  When  he  began,  many  shouted 
'  Amen  ! '  and  *  Praise  the  Lord  ! '  at  the  end  of  about 
every  sentence ;  but  as  he  went  on  they  sprang  to 
their  feet,  shrieking,  and  groaning,  and  crying  out 
for  help,  and  going  into  all  manner  of  writhings 
and  contortions,  until  at  last  many  of  them  fell  down 
in  a  dead  stupor. 

"This  lasted  for  half  an  hour,  and  by  that  time 
fully  a  hundred  whites  and  blacks  —  for  all  there 
were  equal  —  were  on  the  ground,  apparently  sense- 
less. A  vague  horror  and  dread  seemed  to  be  in 
the  air,  and  sweeping  like  a  gale  of  wind  over  the 
people,  taking  away  their  reason.  I  braced  myself 
against  it ;  but,  spite  of  all  I  could  do,  it  affected 
me  like  a  nightmare. 

"  At  last  the  fellow  sat  down ;  and  an  old,  vener- 
able man,  with  long,  white  hair,  and  a  most  benevo- 
lent countenance,  rose,  and  came  to  the  front  of  the 
platform.  He  looked  around  on  the  people  for  a 
moment,  and  then,  with  a  gesture  of  mild  rebuke, 
turned  to  the  other  preacher,  and  said :  '  God  is 
love ;  and  he  that  loveth  not  knoweth  not  God ; 
for  God  is  love.' 

"Then,  turning  again  to  the  assemblage,  he  added  : 
*He  doth  not  willingly  afflict,  nor  grieve  the  chil- 
dren of  men ;  but  in  all  our  afflictions  he  is  afflicted, 
and  the  chastisement  of  our  peace  is  upon  him.' 


i6o  TJie  Young  Virginiaji. 

"  The  effect  of  these  words  was  indescribable,  — 
though  it  was  not  so  much  the  words  as  the  tone, 
the  look,  and  manner  of  the  old  man.  They  were 
to  the  people  like  rain  to  the  parched  ground;  or 
like  the  voice  of  the  Lord,  saying  to  the  sea,  *  Peace, 
be  still ! ' 

"In  a  moment  all  was  quiet,  and  he  went  on.  'I 
am  an  old  man,'  he  said,  '  my  body  is  almost  worn 
out;  but  I  cannot  lift  an  arm,  or  draw  a  breath, 
or  make  a  movement,  that  does  not  give  me  pleas- 
ure. Why?  Because  God  created  us  in  love,  and 
meant  we  should  be  happy.  And  if  he  created  us 
in  love,  will  he  destroy  us  in  anger?  No,  my  chil- 
dren !  His  wrath  abideth  but  for  a  day,  —  his  love 
endureth  for  all  generations.  For  a  little  moment 
he  afflicts  us,  but  with  everlasting  mercy  he  will 
save  us,  and  gather  us  into  his  kingdom  forever. 
While  we  sin  we  suffer,  and  the  suffering  is  in  the 
sTnning;  but  put  away  the  sin,  and  the  suffering 
will  cease,  and  in  its  place  will  come  the  peace 
which  passeth  all  understanding.' 

"  And  so  the  old  man  went  on,  the  love  he  talked 
of  beaming  from  ever}'  look  of  his  eye,  and  every 
lineament  of  his  features,  and  soon  every  cheek  was 
wet,  but  every  face  was  happy.  I  had  heard  sermons 
before,  but  never  any  that  affected  me  as  that  did. 


The  old  Meeting-House.  i6i 

Every  word  of  it  seemed  alive ;  and  the  love  of  God, 
which  before  had  been  to  me  only  a  shadowy  noth- 
ing, became  a  glowing  reality. 

"  When  the  old  man  finished  he  came  down  among 
the  people,  speaking  kindly  to  first  one  and  then 
another,  and  at  last,  coming  to  where  I  was  seated. 
Hardly  knowing  what  I  did,  I  told  him  what  I 
thought  of  the  sermon.  His  eye  lighted  up,  and 
taking  me  by  the  arm  he  said,  'Young  man,  come 
and  take  dinner  with  me.' 

"  I  went  into  his  tent,  sat  down  on  his  blanket, 
and  ate  with  him.  He  asked  me  all  about  myself, 
how  old  I  was,  (I  was  eighteen,)  where  I  lived,  and 
what  was  my  occupation.  I  told  him,  and  then  he 
sasd,  '■  Be  content  with  your  station.  Paul  was  a 
tent-maker,  John  a  fisherman,  and  the  Lord  of  all 
had  not  where  to  lay  his  head.  The  poor  man  may 
be  of  as  much  use  in  the  world  as  the  rich  one. 
Do  not  seek  riches.  Seek  only  to  do  your  duty, 
and  never  forget  what  you  have  heard  to-day,  that 
"  God  is  love,"  Fifty  years  ago  I  found  it  out,  and 
ever  since,  though  I  have  been  hungry',  and  thirsty, 
and  poor,  and  naked,  I  have  been  rich,  —  richer  than 
many  a  man  who  has  a  million,' 

"The  old  man's  kindly  way  put  me  at  my  ease, 
and  I  asked  him  his  name,  and  where  he  lived.     He 


1 62  The  Young  Virginian. 

told  me,  and  something  about  his  history.  It  was 
old  Father  Jeanott ;  —  you  have  heard  of  him,  —  the 
great  evangelist,  who  for  fifty  years  carried  the  cross 
of  Christ  into  every  corner  of  this  Southern  country. 

"He  was  one  of  the  genuine  chivalry.  He  came 
of  those  Huguenots  who  settled  on  the  Neuse  in 
1708,  and  inherited  his  Methodism  from  his  mother, 
who  remembered  John  Wesley's  passing  a  night  at 
her  father's  house,  and  preaching  there  more  than 
a  century  before.  He  engaged-  in  privateering  on  a 
little  schooner  of  forty  tons  towards  the  close  of 
the  Revolutionary  War,  when  he  was  a  boy  of  only 
fifteen.  The  schooner  was  chased  by  an  English 
cutter,  and,  after  a  hard-fought  battle,  was  captured 
and  taken  into  Charleston.  As  he  was  only  a  boy, 
he  was  allowed  to  go  at  large,  and  soon,  aided  by 
an  old  negro,  effected  his  escape.  He  made  his 
way  to  a  Whig  settlement  on  the  Santee,  and  in  a 
few  days,  joined  the  band  of  Marion,  the  partisan 
general  of  the  Revolution.  One  of  his  comrades, 
when  not  on  duty,  was  always  reading  his  Bible,  and 
in  a  brush  with  the  British  at  Georgetown  was  -mor- 
tally wounded.  Jeanott  helped  him  upon  a  horse,  and 
got  him  safely  away ;  but  the  man  was  dying.  All 
he  could  do  when  they  laid  him  on  the  ground  was 
to  gasp,  *  God  is  love,'  and  point  to  his  Bible,  which 


The  old  Meetmg-Hoiise.  163 

was  in  the  breast  of  his  coat.  Jeanott  took  it  out 
and  opened  it  at  the  first  chapter  of  John.  The 
man  put  his  finger  on  the  twelfth  verse,  smiled  on 
the  boy,  looked  upwards,  and  died. 

"  Up  to  this  time  Jeanott  had  been  a  wild  youth, 
but  this  affected  him  as  his  sermon  affected  me. 
He  went  home  when  the  war  ended,  and  studied 
the  Bible  the  trooper  had  left  him.  Soon  all  over 
it  he  found  written,  'God  is  love.'  The  thought 
sank  so  deep  in  his  soul  that  he  wanted  all  the 
world  to  know  it ;  and  so  he  took  to  preaching.  He 
was  sent  as  a  missionary  to  the  new  settlements 
in  Georgia,  Alabama,  and  Mississippi,  where  many 
grown  men  had  never  seen  a  preacher,  and  many 
children  had  never  heard  "of  a  God,  or  a  Redeemer. 
Day  and  night  for  many  years  he  worked  among 
those  people.  Often  he  waded  his  horse  through 
trackless  swamps,  or  swam  it  across  deep  rivers,  and 
often  laid  down  in  the  woods,  with  his  saddle-bags 
for  a  pillow,  and  spent  the  night  with  the  reptiles 
crawling  and  the  wolves  howling  all  about  him.  But 
all  these  things  he  endured  joyfully,  'seeing  Him 
who  is  invisible.'  Like  St.  Paul,  he  thought  his  life 
of  no  account,  but  to  do  the  work  of  the  Master. 

"  In  his  time,  he  probably  preached  to  more  peo- 
ple than  any  man  living;  but   for  all   his  ministra- 


164  TJie  Young  Virginian. 

tions  he  never  received  a  dollar.  His  profession 
of  land-surveyor  supplied  his  few  wants,  and  what 
more  he  earned  he  gave  to  the  poor.  He  was  a  true 
apostle  of  the  lowly  Christ,  preaching  his  Gospel  — 
which  in  his  mouth  was  really  '  the  glad  tidings '  — • 
to  the  outcast  and  the  down-trodden,  and  never  hold- 
ing back  the  truth  from  any  man.  To  the  puffed- 
up  planter  he  would  say,  '  Be  just,  be  humble,  care 
for  and  love  those  that  are  below  you.  Remember 
they  are  God's  children ;  and  look  to  it  that  you 
receive  not  your  good  things  in  this  life,  and  go 
a-begging  in  the  life  to  come.'  To  the  poor  slave  he 
would  say,  '  God  hath  made  of  one  blood  all  that 
dwell  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  So,  be  not  cast  down  ; 
but  be  patient  and  dutiful ;  for  your  reward  will  be 
great  in  heaven.  There  all  things  are  made  even. 
If  you  suffer  here,  so  much  more  will  you  enjoy 
hereafter.'  And  to  the  working  white  man  he  would 
say,  'Teach  your  children,  read  your  Bible,  leave 
off  gaming  and  drinking.  Be  men ;  for  on  you  rests 
the  future  of  a  great  nation ;  and  there  can  be  no 
true  greatness  that  is  not  founded  on  goodness.' 

"And  so  he  labored  for  fifty  years.  His  work  paid 
as  he  went  along ;  but  now  the  great  reward  is  with 
him  ;  for  we  know  that  they  who  turn  many  to  right- 
eousness shall  shine  as  the  stars  for  ever  and  ever. 


The  old  Meeting-House.  165 

"  I  stayed  with  him  till  after  dark,  and,  when  I  went 
away,  he  put  his  hand  on  my  head,  and  said,  *  Boy, 
be  a  man.  Spend  your  spare  money  in  good  books. 
Study  them  and  nature ;  and  in  everjthing  look  for 
God ;  and  remember  that  the  noble  life  is  the  one 
which,  in  little  words  and  little  ways,  preaches  daily 
by  the  roadside.' 

"  That  w'as  nearly  forty  years  ago,  and  the  old 
man  has  been  long  dead ;  but  his  words  are  living 
in  me  yet,  and  I  know  that  I  shall  be  welcomed  by 
him  when  I  go  to-morrow." 

The  blacksmith  finished,  and  a  long  silence  fol- 
lowed, broken  only  by  the  low  sighing  of  the  wind, 
and  the  sharp  crackling  of  the  pine-knots,  which 
now  cast  only  a  dim  light  over  the  desolate  room. 
For  a  time  the  men  sat  around,  gazing  vacantly 
at  the  fire,  or  looking  moodily  out  into  the  dark 
woods,  oppressed  with  feelings  of  pity  for  the  good 
man  they  were  leading  to  an  undeserved  death  ;  or 
with  thoughts  of  the  murdered  boy,  whose  spirit,  many 
of  them  feared,  was  even  then  moving  among  them. 
Then,  one  by  one,  they  rose,  and,  stretching  them 
selves  on  the  ground  or  on  the  rough  benches,  sank 
into  uneasy  slumbers. 

The  low  platform  extended  across  the  farther  end 
of  the  room,  and,  resting  on  the  blankets  which  were 


1 66  TJie  Young  'Virginian. 

spread  upon  it,  James  and  the  Captain  had  listened 
to  the  whole  of  this  conversation.  When  it  was 
ended,  the  trooper  said  to  the  blacksmith,  "Come 
here,  Mr.  Holley.  You  can  turn  in  alongside  of  us. 
There  is  a  blanket." 

The  blacksmith  lay  down,  and  soon  the  heavy 
breathing  of  the  men  was  the  only  sound  to  be  heard 
in  the  gloomy  building. 


A  ''SpirittiaV  Manifestation.  167 

CHAPTER    XIII. 
A   ''spiritual"   manifestation. 

BUT  the  boy  did  not  sleep.  His  mind  busy 
with  many  thoughts,  he  lay  watching  the  trem- 
bling shadows  of  the  low  fire  that  still  flickered  on 
the  hearth,  or  the  straggling  light  of  the  newly-risen 
moon,  which  crept  in  through  the  crevices  of  the 
old  building.  Outside  a  solitary  sentry  was  riding 
his  lonely  round,  singing  as  he  went,  and  the  owls 
and  night-hawks  were  croaking  a  hoarse  song  in  the 
still  woods,  waking  the  dull  echoes  with  their  doleful 
music ;  but  no  other  sounds  were  stirring. 

At  last  the  moonlight  faded  out  of  the  boy's  eyes, 
the  sounds  died  out  of  his  ears,  and  suddenly  he 
seemed  to  be  in  a  little  room  far  away  at  the  north- 
ward. It  was  a  pleasant  room,  with  a  neat  carpet 
on  the  floor,  a  bright  fire  on  the  hearth,  a  vase  of 
flowers  on  the  mantle-piece,  and  an  old  clock  tick- 
ing away  in  the  chimney-corner.  Only  one  person 
was  in  it,-— a  little  woman,  not  old,  nor  yet  young; 
and  she  was  seated  by  a  small  table,  busily  at  work, 
knitting.     She  did  not  hear  the  boy,  for  he  entered 


1 68  The  Young  Virginian. 

with  a  step  as  noiseless  as  the  tread  of  time,  when 
it  falls  on  the  hearts  of  the  young  and  the  loving. 
It  was  his  mother,  and  he  would  surprise  her,  for 
she  thought  him  far  away,  in  a  Southern  prison.  He 
took  a  step  or  two  forward,  then  suddenly  paused ; 
for  he  saw  that  other  people  were  in  the  room  talk- 
ing with  the  little  woman.  It  was  strange  he  had 
not  seen  them  before,  and  stranger  still  the  costume 
they  were  wearing.  "What  a  singular  climate  this 
has  got  to  be,"  he  thought  to  himself,  "  roaring  fires 
and  muslin  gowns,  all  in  one  season." 

There  were  two  of  the  strangers,  clad  in  white  robes, 
spotless  as  the  untrodden  snow  on  the  mountains. 
The  boy  went  more  closely,  and  then,  all  at  once,- 
their  faces  grew  familiar.  But,  could  it  be?  Was 
that  comely  man  his  father  ?  His  father,  whom  they 
laid  away  in  the  ground  years  before,  and  all  the 
while  had  thought  at  rest  in  heaven  ?  And  the  other  ? 
was  she  his  little  sister,  he  thought  sleeping  in  the 
winter's  snow,  grown  into  a  radiant  woman  ?  The 
boy  looked  again,  and  then,  with  a  wild  cry,  sprang 
forward.  The  two  took  him  in  their  arms,  placed 
their  hands  upon  his  head,  and  bent  over  him  as 
if  in  blessing.  A  moment  so  they  stood ;  then  the 
darkness  gathered  round,  and  the  boy  woke  again 
in  the  old  building. 


A  ''Spiritual  Manifestation.  169 

As  he  opened  his  eyes  in  the  gloomy  room,  he 
heard  a  sound  like  the  crackling  of  a  branch  outside, 
near  the  window  under  which  the  blacksmith  was 
sleeping.  It  was  that  which  had  awakened  him ; 
and  he  turned  over  to  woo  again  the  beautiful  vision. 
But  in  a  moment  the  sound  came  again,  and  then  he 
heard  a  low  guarded  whisper.  "  Hist !  hist ! "  it  said. 
"Boss!  Mr.  Holley !  Wake  up,  but  be  dreadful 
quiet." 

The  boy  saw  the  blacksmith  raise  himself  on  his 
elbow,  and  turn  his  ear  to  the  open  window.  "  Is  it 
you,  Jake  t "  he  said,  so  low  that  only  the  night  and 
the-  boy  could  hear  him. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  whisper.  "  Yere  's  a  knife. 
Cut  yer  cords;  but  lay  low,  and  wait  till  we'se  a 
ready." 

Something  bright  then  glittered  between  the  logs, 
and  went  into  the  hand  of  the  blacksmith. 

"  Thar  's  a  nag  hitched  ter  the  second  tree,"  con- 
tinued the  voice,  "  but  we  must  skeer  the  troop 
away,  fur  some  on  'em  mought  spy  ye.  Lay  low, 
till  I  tell  ye  we'se  a  ready." 

"Yes,  yes  !  God  bless  you,  Jake,"  and  the  black 
smith  stretched  himself  out  on  the  platform,  and 
again  breathed  heavily. 

Steps  then  seemed  to  move  away ;  and  soon  the 
8 


I/O  The  Young  Vii'giniajt. 

boy  heard  sounds  in  the  far  corner  where  the  Rebel 
lad  was  buried.  Hidden  by  the  darkness  which 
shrouded  that  end  of  the  building,  he  raised  his  head 
to  listen,  and  then  the  cold  horror  again  crept  over 
him,  for,  standing  in  the  open  doorway,  the  moon- 
light falling  full  on  his  face,  was  the  slave  boy  Rob- 
ert. The  truth  flashed  upon  him.  Jake,  and  perhaps 
the  poor  white  man,  had  come  to  liberate  the  black- 
smith; but  he  —  he  was  there  on  a  deadlier  errand. 

What  should  the  boy  do  ?  If  he  gave  the  alarm 
the  blacksmith  would  not  escape,  and  Robert  and 
the  rest  might  be  taken  j  but  if  he  kept  silent,  the 
sleeping  and  disabled  trooper  would  surely  be  mur- 
dered. It  was  a  fearful  dilemma,  and  the  boy  asked 
God  to  guide  him.  He  lay  between  the  blacksmith 
and  the  Captain,  and,  in  a  moment  reaching  out  his 
hand,  he  touched  the  latter  gently  on  the  shoulder* 
He  was  awake,  and  he  whispered :  "  I  know.  I  've 
heard  it  all.     Keep  quiet." 

"But,"  said  the  boy,  "there  is  danger.  Robert  — 
is  — "  He  said  no  more,  for  a  heavy  hand  was  at 
his  throat,  choking  back  his  words  half-spoken. 

"Take  off  your  hand,  Mr.  Holley,"  whispered 
the  Captain,  raising  himself  on  his  elbow.  "Neither 
the  boy  nor  I  will  harm  you." 

The  blacksmith  released  his  hold,  and  sank  down 


A  ''Spiritual  Matiifestation.  171 

again,  and  the  trooper  looked  around  the  silent  and 
dimly  lighted  apartment.  In  a  moment  his  eye  rested 
on  the  figure  in  the  doorway.  Giving  a  sudden  start 
he  shrunk  back  a  little,  and  then  the  boy  said,  in  a 
low  tone,  "It  was  he  who  shot  at  you.  He  is  here 
to  kill  you." 

The  trooper  bent  down  his  head,  and  was  silent 
for  a  moment ;  then  he  whispered  to  the  boy,  "  Make 
no  noise.  I  am  in  God's  hands.  My  life  is  n't  worth 
four,  —  those  three  and  ^Ir.  Holley's." 

The  figure  disappeared  from  the  doorway,  and  soon 
low  moans  came  from  the  grave  in  the  far  comer 
of  the  building.  They  seemed  to  issue  from  the 
ground,  and  at  first  were  low  and  broken  as  the 
sobs  of  a  sleeping  child ;  but  soon  grew  louder, 
until  they  burst  into  wild  wails,  like  the  long  howls 
of  hungry  wolves  at  midnight.  In  an  instant  ever)' 
trooper  was  on  his  feet,  and  every  eye  was  bent  on 
the  grave  in  the  corner. 

The  Sergeant  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  My  God  !  " 
he  cried,  "  it  'r'  the  boy's  voice,  jest  as  I  yered  him 
screech  out  fur  his  mother^  the  minnit  they  hung 
him." 

The  words  were  scarcely  spoken,  when  a  bright 
light  blazed  up  from  the  hearth  near  the  grave,  and, 
flashing  across  the  room,  went  out  in  the  darkness. 


1/2  The  Young  Virgijiian. 

In  a  moment  it  blazed  up  again,  and  again  went  out 
with  a  rumbling  sound  like  the  noise  of  distant 
thunder.  Meanwhile,  the  cries  grew  even  more 
wildly  terrible,  and  the  men  huddled  together  about 
the  doorway,  stupid  with  horror  and  amazement.  In 
another  moment  a  still  brighter  light  blazed  forth, 
and  this  was  followed  by  an  explosion  which  shook 
the  chimney  to  its  foundations,  and  tumbled  down 
the  rotten  logs,  and  the  larger  part  of  the  roof  of 
that  end  of  the  building. 

The  terror-stricken  troopers  fled  to  the  woods,  and 
then  a  man  rushed  in  at  the  opening.  "  Quick,  Boss," 
he  cried,  "  thar  hain't  a  minnit  ter  lose ;  they  '11  be 
over  the  skeer,  and  arter  us  in  a  jiffin." 

James  rose  to  his  feet  when  the  roof  fell  in ;  and 
now,  through  the  thick  smoke  and  floating  cinders 
which  filled  the  room,  saw  a  dark  figure  creeping 
along  over  the  ruins  towards  the  Captain.  It  seemed 
to  hold  something  in  its  hand  which  glittered  like  a 
knife  in  the  muffled  moonlight.  The  boy  gave  a 
wild  cry,  but  the  figure  was  already  on  the  platform, 
and  with  the  words,  ''I  have  you  now,"  the  knife 
was  descending  into  the  body  of  the  prostrate 
trooper.  Only  an  instant  of  time  was  between  him 
and  eternity ;  but  in  that  instant  the  guide  clutched 
the  knife-hilt,  crying  out,  "  Ye  infernal  villun  !  This 
ar'  why  ye  come  so  willin'." 


A  ''Spiritual"  Manifestation.  173 

They  struggled  for  a  moment ;  but  then  the  knife 
fell  from  the  slave  boy's  hand,  and  the  guide  tossed 
him,  as  if  he  had  been  a  man  of  cork,  through  the 
open  window.  "  Away  !  "  he  cried,  "  tuck  yerself 
off,  or  I  '11  send  yer  black  soul  whar  it  belongs,  as 
sure  as  I  'm  a  Christian." 

In  a  moment  more  the  blacksmith  and  the  guide 
followed  ;  and  soon  the  boy  heard  the  rapid  tramp 
of  horses  going  down  the  road  by  which  the  troop 
had  come  in  the  morning.  Then  turning  round  he 
looked  at  the  Captain.  He  was  raised  on  his  elbow, 
but  his  head  was  bowed  down,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
praying. 


174  The  Young  Virginian. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

ON  THE  MOUNTAIN  BY  MOONLIGHT. 

FOR  a  short  while  nothing  broke  the  silence. 
The  boy  then  heard  a  voice  outside  saying, 
"I  say,  Sargint,  I  know'd  them  spirits  wus  bogus. 
Thar  they  goes  on  solid  hoss-flesh." 

"Sanders  orter  know,''  said  another  voice,  "he's 
been  among  the  devils.  But  blast  my  eyes  ef  one 
on  'em  hain't  the  blacksmith!" 

"  So  it  ar',"  shouted  the  Sergeant,  "  as  sure  as  I  'm 
a  white  man  !  Mount,  men  !  mount !  Two  or  three 
on  ye  stay  with  the  Cap'n,  the  rest  follow  me. 
Quick!  or  the  Gunnel  '11  make  this  kentry  too  hot 
ter  hold  any  on  us." 

There  was  a  confused  hurrjdng  to  and  fro ;  but 
the  horses  were  unsaddled,  and  the  carbines  under 
the  rubbish  of  the  ruined  -building ;  and  fully  fifteen 
minutes  elapsed  before  the  men  were  mounted,  and 
following  the  fugitives. 

By  that  time  the  guide  and  the  blacksmith  had 
gone  three  miles,  and  reached  a  narrow  bridle-path 
which  led  directly  over  the  mountain.     Turning  into 


On  the  Mountain  by  Moonlight.  175 

it,  the  guide  shouted  to  his  companion  :  "  It  goes 
stret  ter  the  Gunnel's  camp ;  but  it  'r'  the  safest  road 
we  kin  travil, — they  wont  think  ter  foller." 

Another  three  miles  they  rode  rapidly  forward, 
then  halted  on  a  rising  ground  which  overlooked 
the  highway.  The  woods  were  still,  and  the  full 
moon,  now  two  hours  high,  shining  through  the  clear 
air,  lit  up  the  night  with  a  glow  like  that  you  have 
seen  in  the  sky  when  the  clouds  have  first  told  of 
the  coming  sunrise. 

Putting  his  hand  to  his  ear,  the  guide  listened. 
*'  Don't  ye  yere  'em,  Boss  ?  "  he  said.  "  They  hain't 
yit  got  ter  the  turnin'." 

"No,"  answered  the  blacksmith;  "but  by  this  moon 
they  '11  see  our  tracks  as  plain  as  by  daylight.  Had 
n't  we  better  push  on,  and  trust  to  the  horses  ? " 

"  I  reckon  not.  Yer  nag  hain't  no  bottom.  It  'r' 
the  beast  the  ma'am  rode,  and  thar  ar'  ten  irr  the 
troop  as,  on  a  long  stretch,  hev  run  him  all  ter  flin- 
ders,—  'sides,  they  're  comin'  nigher,  and  mought 
yere  our  trampin'.  They  carn't  track  us  on  this 
grass;  and  ef  they  turns  up,  we  '11  jest  lay  low  till 
they  goes  by,  and  over  the  mounting." 

The  tramp  of  the  horsemen  came  nearer,  until  it 
sounded  not  a  mile  away;  then  the  guide  spoke 
again :  "  It  'r'  as  I  counted,"  he  said,  "  they  're  gone 


1/6  The  Young  Virgi7iian. 

on  ter  the  smithy.  They  reckon  old  foxes  hain't 
more  'n  one  hole.  Now,  Boss,  we  mought  go  on ; 
but  we  'd  best  walk  the  nags,  'case  't  won't  make 
no  noise,  and  '11  guv  'em  a  chance  ter  breathe  ag'in 
the  next  chase." 

They  rode  slowly  forward,  and  the  blacksmith  said, 
"  Did  n't  you  say  this  path  led  directly  to  Mosby's 
camp  ? " 

"  It  do ;  but  thar  's  another  as  branches  off  'bout 
a  mile  above  yere,  and  goes  along  the  side  of  the 
mounting.  My  idee  ar'  ter  tuck  thet,  and  lay  out 
in  the  woods  till  ter-morrer  night,  —  then  six  mile 
will  tuck  us  inter  the  road  beyont  the  old  church ; 
and  when  we  gits  thar,  p'raps  we  kin  see  our  way 
out  o'  Virginny.  It  'r  ticklish  business,  fur  this 
mounting  ar'  alive  with  our  men ;  but  I  reckon  we 
kin  keep  our  na^s  out  o'  hearin',  ef  we  kin  git  'em 
fur  'nuif  frum  the  bridle-way." 

"  Have  you  seen  Ruth  ?  "  asked  the  blacksmith. 

"  Yes.  I  left  her  ahind  ter  John's  house.  She  's 
a  gwine  ter  set  out  fur  Winchester  in  the  mornin', 
and  she  counts  on  meetin'  ye  thar.  She  know'd  what 
we  went  about;  and  I  reckon  she  holped  it  along 
with  her  prayin'." 

"  But  how  did  you  happen  to  go  back  to  Burs- 
ley's  ? " 


Oti  the  Mountain  by  Moonlight.  177 

"  Wall,  ye  sees,  that  ar'  black  devil  said  he  'd 
watch  the  road,  —  though  I  did  n't  think  thar  wus 
any  danger  uv  the  Sargint  follerin'.  Thinkin'  so,  I 
went  back  thet  way  when  I  left  the  cabin,  —  meanin' 
ter  tuck  the  path  through  the  woods,  'fore  ye  come 
ter  the  smithy,  and  so  git  inter  the  road  ahead  o' 
the  troop.  Thet  route,  ye  knows,  ar'  a  right  sight 
nigher  'n  the  one  round  by  Major  Lucy's,  and  it 
'peared  ter  me,  ef  I  did  n't  git  fust  ter  camp,  the 
Gunnel  mought  suspicion  me,  fur  he  's  keener  arter 
sich  things  nur  a  fox  arter  a  hen-roost.  So  I  went 
thet  way;  but  I  hed  n't  gone  three  mile — jest  ter 
the  hill  whar  we  met  the  Yankee  boy  —  'fore  I  come 
onter  the  darkey  hid  away  among  the  bushes.  He 
halted  me,  and  we  stood  thar  a  parleyin',  when,  all 
uv  a  sudden,  he  screeched  out,  —  he  has  ears  keener 
'n  a  hound's,  —  '  They  's  a  comin'.' 

"  I  listened,  and  shore  'nuff  they  wus,  —  and  so 
nigh  thet  they  'd  ha'  seed  me  ef  I  'd  turned  back 
on  the  path,  sartin.  The  feller  'peared  honest,  so 
I  telled  him  ter  ride  on,  and  guv  ye  warnin' ;  and 
I  put  inter  the  timber  with  the  mar',  'bout  a  hun- 
dred rods  back  frum  the  bridle-way. 

"  I  yered  'em  go  by,  and  feelin'  sort  o'  oneasy  'bout 
ye,  I  led  the  mar'  inter  the  path  ag'in,  and  follered, 
till  I  come  'in  a  quarter  uv  a  mile  o'  the  cl'arin'.    Thar 
8*  L 


178  The  Young  Virginian. 

I  got  off  the  nag  and  dumb  a  tree,  vvhar  I  seed  all 
as  happened. 

"  I  seed  John  run  from  the  cabin,  and  put  fur  the 
timber ;  and,  when  he  come  nigh  'nuff,  I  cawed  loike 
a  crow,  —  the  old  sign  I  I'arned  o'  him  when  he  used 
ter  holp  us  at  the  smithy.  He  know'd  it  in  a  min- 
nit,  and  come  ter  me,  and  thar  we  sot,  and  —  seed 
the  durned  devils  tuck  ye,  not  able  ter  lift  a  hand 
ter  hinder.  When  ye  wus  gone,  we  come  down  and 
went  ter  the  cabin  ;  but  afore  that  I  'd  the  whole 
plan  in  my  head,  cl'ar  up  ter  our  turnin'  inter  this 
yere  bridle-way." 

"  It  was  an  amazing  smart  plan,  Jake,"  said  the 
blacksmith.     "What  put  it  into  your  head?" 

"  Nothin'.  It  sort  o'  flashed  out,  as  a  spark  '11 
flash  out  uv  hot  iron  when  ye  's  a-beatin'  on  it  I 
war  a  beatin'  my  brain,  and  all  ter  onst  out  come 
thet  idee,  and  showed  me  yer  way  ter  the  Yankees, 
cl'ar  as  sun-up.  The  Lord  wus  in  it,  Boss.  I  knows 
ye  say  he  's  in  uverything  as  happens ;  but  I  reckon 
we  hain't  right  sart'in  o'  thet  till  we  finds  it  out  by 
a  livin'  on  it." 

"  No  truth  is  a  truth  until  we  've  lived  it,"  said 
the  blacksmith.  "But  how  did  you  come  again  on 
Robert  Lucy.?" 

""Why,  he  come  hisself  ter  the   cabin.     Ye  sees, 


On  the  Moiintaiii  by  Moou light.  179 

when  we  'd  gone  back,  and  was  a-talkin'  over  the 
thing  with  the  ma'am,  the  yaller  boy  comed  in,  and 
yered  the  story.  He  tuck  ter  it  right  zealous,  and 
offered  ter  jine  us;  but  the  old  aunty  she  made  a 
time.  She  said  nothin'  good  'ud  come  on  his  gwine  : 
and  tuck  on  in  a  drefful  way.  Howso'ver,  he  did  n't 
mind  her  no  more  'n  ef  he  'd  been  the  yerth,  and 
she  a  gale  o'  wind,  —  though  he  war  a  durned  sight 
more  loike  a  gale  o'  wind  nur  she  war.  The  very 
devil  'peared  ter  ha'  got  inter  him,  and  —  ye  seed 
it  got  out  at  the  old  meetin'-house." 

"  But  what  has  he  against  that  Captain  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.  He  said  nothin'  ter  us  'bout  him, 
—  only  that  he  used  ter  own  his  mother." 

"  Ah !  I  thought  I  had  met  the  man  before  ;  and 
now  I  remember.  He  came  to  my  house  with  the 
woman  long  ago, — before  you  lived  with  me.  He 
had  just  bought  her  of  Major  Lucy.  They  had 
some  words  about  the  trade,  and  the  Major  drove 
him  from  the  mansion  in  the  edge  of  the  evening, 
and  they  had  nowhere  to  sleep  over  night.  If  tales 
are  true,  he  's  a  hard  customer ;  and  yet  he  don't 
seem  to  be  a  very  bad  man." 

*'  I  nuver  seed  much  on  him,"  said  the  guide. 
"  He  's  ginerally  off  on  detached  duty.  Them  as 
knows  him  says  he  drinks  loike  a  fish,  and,  onst  in 


l8o  The  Young  Virginian. 

2l  while,  gits  desput  reckless ;  but  they  reckon  he  's 
a  heart  somewhar  'bout  him." 

"  Well ;  you  all  set  out  from  the  cabin  ? " 

"Yes.  I  hed  no  time  ter  parley;  so  I  telled  the 
yaller  boy  ter  come,  or  not,  as  he  loiked,  and  put 
out.  He  come,  and  we  follered  not  two  miles  ahind 
o'  ye  till  we  got  ter  the  bridle-way  as  comes  out 
ter  old  man  Flanders's.  We  tuck  thet,  and  struck 
the  high-road  just  about  mornin' ;  and  then  put  on 
and  got  ter  the  old  church  hours  afore  ye." 

"  And  what  made  you  think  of  going  to  the  meet- 
ing-house "i " 

"Thet  was  a  part  o'  the  plan  as  come  ter  me. 
I  know'd  ye  'd  hev  ter  pass  it  anyhow,  'case  uv  the 
wagon;  and,  when  I  looked  at  it,  it  stood  ter  rea- 
son the  troop  would  halt  thar;  fur  ye  nuver 
know'd  one  o'  Mosby's  men  on  a  tramp  ter  camp 
in  a  woods  or  a  house,  when  a  church  war  in  a 
hour's  ridin'.  When  we  got  thar,  we  tethered  the 
nags  in  the  timbered  holler,  and  arter  thet  went 
round  the  old  shanty  and  talked  over  the  plan  ter- 
gether.  Then  Bursley  backed  out.  When  we  stood 
face  ter  face  with  the  thing,  it  sort  o'  cowed  him ; 
but  I  don't  know  as  I  kin  blame  him.  He  has  a 
wife  and  chillen,  and  thet  makes  his  life  wuth 
more  'n  a  common  man's." 


On  the  Mountain  by  Moonlight.         18 1 

"And  it  was  desperate  business,  Jake,"  said  the 
blacksmith ;  "  but  Bursley  is  only  like  the  rest  of 
his  class.  Their  spirits  are  broken ;  all  manhood 
has  been  crushed  out  of  them  by  the  very  men  you 
are  fighting  for." 

"  As  I  war  a-fightin'  fur,  Boss.  My  fightin'  days 
is  over.  Arter  this,  ef  I  should  show  my  face  in 
these  diggin's,  I  reckon  't  would  be  took,  framed, 
and  hung  ter  the  limb  uv  a  tree,  so  quick  't  would 
make  my  head  swim." 

"  Then  you  '11  go  with  me  ? " 

"  Yes,  Boss.     We  '11  live  or  die  tergether." 

They  had  now  entered  the  upper  bridle-path,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  the  guide  resumed  his  narrative. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  as  I  war  sayin',  Bursley  backed 
out,  and  went  off,  leavin'  the  nag  ahind  fur  ye,  as 
we  'd  lotted  on  from  the  beginnin'.  Then  I  seed 
what  the  Lord  meant  by  the  yaller  boy's  comin' 
along ;  fur  I  could  n't  ha'  got  on  without  him  no 
how.  Ye  sees  thar  had  ter  be  two,  —  one  ter  sing 
base,  and  the  t'  other  treble,  —  one  'ter  howl,  and 
t'  other  ter  put  in  the  thunder." 

"  And  you  did  it  well,"  said  the  blacksmith,  laugh 
ing.  "  I  never  heard  such  howling  since  I  was  cre- 
ated." 

"Nur   I.     I   thort  myself  it  war  the  Devil,  —  and 


1 82  TJie  Young  Virginian. 

I  reckon  that  boy  ar'  nigh  o'  kin  ter  the  old  fel- 
ler." 

"Then  he  did  it?" 

"Yes,  he  done  it.  Ye  sees;  it  war  this  a  way. 
Thar,  by  the  boy's  grave,  ye  knows,  ar'  a  place  whar 
the  logs  has  broke  loose,  and  bulged  out'ards.  I 
know'd  the  shanty  war  thort  ter  be  haunted,  and 
that  the  Sargint,  and  nigh  all  o'  the  men,  war  mighty 
superstitious.  So  we  determined  ter  hide  thar  by 
the  grave,  under  the  bulgin'  logs,  and,  when  all  war 
still,  begin  ter  howl  loike  sperrets,  and  let  powder 
down  the  old  chimney  loike  the  devil.  'T  was 
awful  hard  ter  keep  the  yaller  boy  still ;  and  I  thort 
he  'd  a  flung  all  the  fat  in  the  fire  at  the  first  go ; 
but,  lucky  loike,  he  did  n't,  and  it  all  wuck'd  jest 
as  slick  as  a  new  bellows." 

"  How  did  it  like  to  miscarry  ? " 

"  Why,  when  they  'd  brung  ye  inter  the  buildin', 
and  war  a  lightin'  the  fire,  he  poked  his  head  up 
afore  I  know'd  it.  I  hauled  him  back  in  a  second ; 
but,  in  thet  second,  the  Sargint  seed  him,  and  I 
thought  we  was  goners." 

"And  the  Sergeant  took  his  face  for  that  of  the 
boy  they  had  murdered?" 

"  Jest  so,  —  as  the  Lord  would  hev  it.  Then 
he   telled   the   story ;   and  that  woke   up  the   men's 


On  the  Mountain  by  Moonlight.  183 

"Well,  it  worked  well;  but  you  ran  an  immense 
risk  in  giving  me  warning.  Both  the  Captain  and 
the  Yankee  boy  heard  you." 

"  Yered  me !  Yered  me,  and  did  n't  let  on ! 
What  on  yerth  could  ha'  come  o^r  'em?" 

"The  Providence  that  is  over  all.  He  made  the 
soil,  and  knows  what  seed  to  plant  in  it.  He  made 
that  man's  soul,  and  knew  it  could  be  touched  with 

pity." 

"Well,  I  reckon  it  war  touched  with  Sanders's 
dream.     He  wanted  ter  keep  out  o'  the  fire.     Ha! 

ha!" 

"Fear  is  a  poor  motive  for  a  good  action.  The 
Captain  is  too  intelligent  a  man  to  believe  in  such 
things." 

"  Well,  p'raps  he  ar'  ;  but  I  'm  durned  ef  the  man's 
'count  o'  the  hot  place  did  n't  make  me  shiver.  I 
war  '  hotter 'n  fire,  and  colder 'n  Greenland,'  by  turns, 
and  all  ter  onst,  all  over.  But  I  reckon  we  'se  come 
'bout  fur  'nuff.  Had  n't  we  best  be  a  luckin'  up  a 
roost  'mong  the  timber?" 

The  blacksmith  assented ;  and  the  guide,  dismount- 
ing and  leaving  his  horse  standing  in  the  road,  nar- 
rowly inspected  the  woods  on  both  sides  of  the  bridle- 
way. They  had  come  about  two  miles  along  a  path 
running  parallel  with   the  high-road   leading   to    the 


184  The  Young  Virgmian. 

ruined  church,  and  were  in  the  midst  of  a  forest 
of  oaks  and  pines,  among  which  stunted  cedars  and 
a  thick  underbrush  were  growing.  The  guide  went 
into  the  woods,  but  in  a  few  moments  burst  out  of 
the  underbrush,  cr^ng  out,  "  Don't  ye  yere  'em,  Boss  ! 
The  devils  hev  tracked  us  up  the  bridle-way ! " 

The  blacksmith  listened,  and  heard  sounds,  as 
of  a  dozen  horsemen  coming  rapidly  up  the  moun- 
tain.    "  We  must  take  to  the  woods,"  he  said,  quickly. 

"  No,  no  !  Thet  '11  nuver  do,  7iow.  They  'd  scour 
every  inch  of  the  timber.  They  know  we  has  n't 
gone  ter  camp  ;  and  thar  's  nar}^  turn-off  but  this ; 
so  they'll  be  sure  ter  tuck  it.  We  must  put  ahead. 
Thar  's  a  bridge  over  a  right  deep  branch,  a  mile 
beyont;  we  '11  cut  thet  away,  and  then  make  as 
many  mile  as  we  kin  afore  daylight." 

They  dashed  rapidly  forward.  A  fallen  tree  was 
in  the  way,  but  they  cleared  it  at  a  bound,  and  were 
at  the  bridge  twenty  minutes  in  advance  of  their 
pursuers.  It  was  only  a  foot-way,  —  a  few  rough 
planks  nailed  loosely  to  two  cross-timbers,  spanning 
a  ravine  about  twenty  feet  wide  and  forty  deep. 
Its  sides  were  perpendicular  rocks,  and  in  its  bed 
a  shallow  stream  —  in  winter  a  foaming  torrent  — 
was  flowing. 

If  those  planks  could   be   removed,   the   fugitives 


On  the  Mountain  by  Moonlight.  185 

would  gain  a  long  hour  on  the  rangers  ;  for  the  lat- 
ter would  have  to  circle  back  to  the  old  church,  and 
take  a  new  start,   and   the    distance  round  was   ten 
miles  by  the  fleetest  horse  in  Virginia.     They  sprang 
to   the   ground,   and   bent   all    their  strength  to  the 
work.     The  blacksmith  was  a  Hercules ;  but  he  had 
but  one  arm,  and  his  only  tool  was  the  guide's  car- 
bine.     Fully   five   minutes   elapsed   before   the   first 
plank  was  loosened  from  its  fastenings ;  but  the  next 
came  up  more  quickly,   for   the  beam  of  the  bridge 
served  as  a  fulcrum.     The  stock  of  the  carbine  then 
gave  way;  but  the   barrel  was  left,  and  the  black- 
smith's hand  was  in  ;  and  soon  the  planks  went  down 
the  ravine,   as  snow-flakes  go   down  a  winter  whirl- 
wind.    In   fifteen   minutes   the  flooring  was  cleared 
away,  and  the  blacksmith   crawled   back   along  one 
of  the   cross-timbers.      A   minute   or   two   was   con- 
sumed in  catching  his  horse,  which  was  not  so  docile 
as  the   guide's,   and   then   they   mounted;  but   then 
the  rangers  were  upon  them,  and  a  bullet,  whistling 
over  their  heads,  lodged  among  the   timber.     They 
put  spurs  to  their  nags;   but  in  a  moment  another 
bullet  cut  the  air,  and  the  guide's  mare  leaped  madly 
forward,  staggered  a  step  or  two,  and  then  fell  across 
the  bridle-way.     The  guide  went  down  with  her. 

"  Quick,  Jake  !    On  to  my  horse  !  "  cried  the  black- 
smith. 


1 86  The  Yoinig  Vii'ginian. 

The  guide  tried  to  rise  but  could  not.  "My  leg 
ar'  broke,"  he  said.  "  Go,  Boss,  they  '11  fire  ag'in, 
the  nag  '11  save  me  from  the  bullets." 

He  lay  under  the  lee  of  the  animal.  The  rangers 
were  at  the  edge  of  the  ravine,  not  a  hundred  yards 
away,  but  the  Sergeant  had  ordered  them  to  "stop 
firin'." 

The  blacksmith  dismounted,  and  leading  his  horse 
to  the  guide  attempted  to  lift  him  from  the  ground ; 
but  the  guide  said,  "  No,  Boss.  Yer  nag  would  n't 
tote  us  two,  five  mile,  no  how.      Go,  I  beg  o'  ye,  go." 

"  I  can't  leave  you,  Jake,"  answered  the  blacksmith. 

But  some  of  the  rangers  had  dismounted,  and  were 
then  creeping  across  on  the  beams  of  the  bridge. 

"  Don't  ye  see  ? "  said  the  guide.  "  Think  uv  the 
ma'am !     Go." 

The  blacksmith  hesitated  no  longer,  but  bounded 
upon  the  back  of  his  horse,  saying,  "  Good  by ! 
God  bless  ye,  Jake  !  " 

"  God  bless  ye.  Boss !  I  promised  the  ma'am  ter  git 
ye  loose,  or  die  in  tryin',  and  I  'se  done  it.    Ha  !  ha  !  " 

These  words  went  down  the  wind  as  the  blacksmith 
galloped  away  along  the  bridle-path. 


The  Ride  of  the  Blacksmith.  187 

CHAPTER     XV. 

THE    RIDE    OF    THE    BLACKSMITH. 

IT  was   not   the   thought  of  his  wife,  though   she 
was  dear  to  him,  nor  of  his  own  life,  though  he 
valued  it  as  a  gift  of  God,  not  to  be  thrown  uselessly 
away,  but  the  thought  of  his  friend,  who  had  risked 
his  life  for  him,  which  made  the  blacksmith  spring 
upon   his   horse,   bury  the   rowels   in  its  flanks,  and 
sweep  like  the  wind  up  the  bridle-way.     He  saw  the 
rangers   moving   across   the    timbers,  and  knew  that 
in  a  moment  they  would  be  upon  them.     He  knew 
that  if,    in  that  single   moment,  he   could   extricate 
the  guide  from  his  fallen  horse,  he  could  not  mount 
him   upon   the   back   of    his   own    animal.     Another 
moment  and  both  would  be  prisoners,  and  so,  power- 
less  to   aid   each  other.     But  if  he  went   away,  he 
might  aid  the  guide.     He  might  ride  to  the  Union 
lines   and    bring   a   force   to   his   rescue   before   the 
merciless  rough-rider  should  have  time  to  hang  him. 
He  might  do  this,  but  it  was  only  a  bare  possibility ; 
for  daylight  and  thirty  miles  of  country  infested  with 
Rebel   rangers   lay  between  him   and  the  camp  of 


1 88  TJie  Young  Virginian. 

the  Union  General.  But  it  is  on  these  possibilities, 
these  forlorn  hopes,  which  appall  the  hearts  of  cow- 
ards, but  inspire  the  souls  of  the  truly  brave,  that 
often  hang  the  fate  of  men,  and  armies,  and  even 
nations.  The  blacksmith  was  a  brave  man,  brave 
with  that  bravery  which  comes  only  from  perfect 
reliance  on  God  ;  so  he  turned  away  from  his  friend, 
buried  the  rowels  in  his  horse's  flanks,  and  bounded 
up  the  bridle-way. 

His  route  was  beset  with  perils.  At  Front  Royal 
—  ten  miles  beyond  —  was  a  squad  of  Rebel  cav- 
alry, with  pickets  posted  on  both  sides  of  the  vil- 
lage. He  could  not  hope  to  pass  them  by  daylight, 
and  it  then  wanted  only  two  hours  of  sunrise.  His 
horse  was  already  much  blown ;  for,  as  the  guide 
had  said,  the  beast  had  no  bottom,  —  none  of  that 
endurance  which  carries  horses,  and  men  too,  through 
long  journeys  and  great  undertakings.  The  animal 
might  give  out ;  and  if  he  bore  him  safely  through 
Front  Royal,  the  route  beyond  was  over  an  open 
road,  in  open  day,  where  every  house  might  hold 
an  enemy,  and  every  clump  of  bushes  hide  an  am- 
buscade of  Rebel  horsemen.  If  he  made  a  detour 
to  avoid  the  town,  he  would  encounter  dangers  as 
great,  and  lose  five  of  the  few  hours  in  which  he 
could  make  the  rescue  \  so  again  he  thrust  his  spurs 


TJie  Ride  of  the  Blacksmith.  189 

into  his  horse's  flanks,  and  rode  swiftly  up  the  moun- 
tain. 

He  halted  at  the  junction  with  the  high-road,  and 
looked  back  down  the  mountain.  A  bright  fire  was 
blazing,  far  below,  in  the  old  meeting-house,  and 
torches  were  moving  to  and  fro  in  the  woods  be- 
tween it  and  the  broken  bridge ;  but  all  else  was 
moonlight  and  silence.  He  lingered  but  a  moment, 
and  again  went  forward.  Soon  he  reached  Chester 
Gap  at  the  summit  of  the  Ridge ;  then  his  way  was 
down  hill,  his  horse  went  freer,  and,  half  an  hour 
before  sunrise,  he  rode  up  to  the  mounted  sentry  at 
the  entrance  of  Front  Royal. 

The  man  was  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  and  the 
blacksmith  did  not  see  him  till  the  word  "  Halt ! " 
exploded  in  his  ears  with  a  report  like  that  of  a  shot- 
gun. Reining  his  tired  beast  into  a  walk,  he  said, 
"  I  'm  on  urgent  business.  Lead  me  at  once  to 
Captain  Burrows." 

"  Halt,  I  tell  ye ! "  yelled  the  sentry,  not  heeding 
the  remark,  "ye  carn't  pass  without  the  counter- 
sign." 

The  few  forward  paces  he  had  taken  had  brought 
the  blacksmith  within  reach  of  the  soldier.  He  was 
without  weapons,  but  his  single  arm,  nerved  by  hard 
work,  and  a  strong  purpose,  could  overcome  half  a 


190  The  Young  Virginian. 

dozen  such  striplings  ;  so  he  halted.  "  I  don't  know 
the  word,"  he  said.  "  Three  nights  ago  it  was  Con- 
federacy." 

"  Ef  ye  *d  lost  yer  front  teeth,  thet  moight  be  it 
now;  but  't  ain't,  so  ye  carn't  pass,  stranger,"  said 
the  sentry,  moving  his  horse  a  little  up  the  road. 

"  I  know  !  Now  it  comes  to  me  !  "  exclaimed  the 
blacksmith,  following  the  other  into  the  shadow, 
"  Confederates ! " 

"  Ye  Ve  hit  it ;  but  I  reckon  't  war  a  Yankee  guess. 
War  n't  it?" 

"Do  I  look  like  a  Yankee?"  asked  the  black- 
smith, laughing. 

The  Rebel  opened  his  dark  lantern,  and,  holding 
it  up  to  the  face  of  the  loyalist,  took  a  close  survey 
of  his  features.  *'  No,"  he  said,  "  but  I  'm  durned 
ef  yer  a  Suth'ner.  No  Suth'ner  'buses  horse-flesh 
loike  yer  doin'.     The  nag  's  dyin'." 

"  Never  mind  the  nag.  I  tell  you  I  'm  in  a  hurry. 
Can  I  pass?" 

"Yes.  Ye  've  guessed  the  word;  but  I  've  a 
feelin'  fur  dumb  critters ;  so  ye  kin  pass.  Ye  '11 
find  the  Cap'n  at  the  public  house.  Don't  tell  him 
how  ye  got  by." 

"No,  I  won't.     Good  morning." 

"Good  mornin',  stranger."     And  the  blacksmith's 


TJie  Ride  of  the  Blacksmith.  191 

jaded  nag  trotted  briskly  in  among  the  silent  houses, 
and,  turning  off  to  avoid  the  soldiers  stationed  about 
the  tavern,  took  a  narrow  by-way  winding  along  the 
outskirts  of  the  village. 

This    way   was    not    guarded,    as   only   one   route 

—  the  plank  road  which  crosses  the  Shenandoah  a 
mile  beyond,  and  goes  on  to  Winchester  —  gives 
exit  from  the  town  at  the  westward.  Into  this  road 
the  guide  turned  when  once  beyond  the  buildings, 
and  rode  slowly  on,  thinking  over  his  situation. 

One  great  danger  was  surmounted  ;  for  the  pass- 
word was  a  key  which  would  unlock  all  the  gates 
of  Front  Royal ;  but  Winchester  was  twenty  miles 
beyond,  and  his  horse  was  breaking  down,  and  might 
at  any  moment  fall  in  the  highway.  Where  could 
he  get  another  ?  He  knew  a  dozen  Union  men  liv- 
ing near  his  intended  route ;  but  would  the  Rebels 
have  left  one  of  them  an  ounce  of  horse-flesh?  He 
might  walk  twenty  miles,  but  it  would  consume  time, 
and  time  —  which  the  careless  waste,  drones  dream 
away,   and   even   earnest    men  do  not   rightly  value 

—  was  then  only  a  narrow  span  between  the  guide 
and  eternity.  With  this  thought  he  again  pressed 
his  jaded  horse  forward. 

''Halt!"  in  a  few  moments  cried  a  sentry. 
The  blacksmith  slackened  his  pace,  and  answered, 
"  Confederates." 


192  The  Yoimg  Virginian. 

"  All  right,"  said  the  sentry.  "  Yer  nag  ar'  pret- 
ty well  done  up,  stranger." 

A  thought  struck  the  blacksmith,  and  he  came 
to  a  full  halt  "  Yes,  he  is,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  if 
fresh,  he  'd  be  worth  two  of  yours.  I  Ve  a  long 
journey  before  me;  how  will  you  trade?" 

"Wall,  I  don't  know.     How '11  ye? 

"  For  a  hundred  dollars,  —  saddle  and  all." 

"  I  don't  own  the  saddle,"  said  the  soldier,  dis- 
mounting and  narrowly  examining  the  strange  animal. 

"  I  'm  'feared  ye  's  broke  his  wind.  He  's  bad 
blown." 

"Well,  talk  quick.     How '11  you  trade?" 

"  Even  ! " 

"  Done  ! "  and  the  blacksmith  sprang  to  the 
ground  and  began  to  undo  the  girth  of  his  saddle. 
The  soldier  did  the  same  to  his,  but  much  more 
deliberately.  "  Great  news  thet,  last  night,"  he  said, 
with  his  head  half-way  under  the  animal. 

"What   news?" 

"  ^^^ly,  hain't  ye  yered !  Early  's  got  agin  inter 
Martinsburg,  and  druv  Av'rill  clar  back  ter  Harper's 
Ferr}^" 

"The  Devil!" 

The  blacksmith  was  a  good  man,  and  hated  the 
Evil   One  ;   but  even  good   men   too  frequently  call 


The  Ride  of  tJic  Dlacksmith.  193 

on  that  personage  at  tr}'ing  moments.  This  was  a 
trying  moment  to  the  blacksmith ;  it  tried  even  his 
trust  in  God.  The  news  gave  a  death-blow  to  his 
plan  of  rescuing  the  guide.  Harper's  Ferry  was  fifty 
miles  away,  and  all  his  hopes  had  hung  on  Averill. 
Recovering  himself,  however,  he  said  coolly,  "I 
thought  the  Yankees  were  at  Winchester." 

"  Winchester !  why,  whar  's  ye  been  fur  days 
goin'.  Ye  sees,  Av'rill  follered  us  down  ter  the 
mountain  this  side  o'  thar  a  Saturday;  but  Early 
hed  been  reinforced,  and  he  stood  and  fit  him  all 
thet  day  and  the  next;  and  then  the  Yanks  ske- 
daddled and  did  n't  holt  up  till  they  got  clar  ter 
the  Ferry.  Early  follered,  and  got  inter  Martins- 
burg  on  Tuesday." 

Tuesday  was  the  26th  of  July,  and  this  was  the 
morning  of  Thursday,  the  28th. 

"Then  the  Yankees  are  cleared  entirely  from  the 
Valley?"  said  the  blacksmith,  speaking  with  appar- 
ent unconcern,  but  with  a  keen  agony  at  his  heart 
which  almost  stopped  its  beating. 

"Av'rill  has  drawed  his  men  in  from  Bunker  Hill, 
and  round  Martinsburg  ;  and  I  reckon  they  's  pret- 
ty well  cl'ared  out  o'  the  whole  destrict ;  though  a 
feller  was  along  yere  not  a  hour  back,  as  said  he  'd 
jest  seed  a  hundred  on  'em  breakin'  cover  t'other 
9  M 


194  '^^^^  Young  Virginian. 

side  o'  Millwood.  I  sent  him  on  ter  the  Cap'n ; 
but  it  carn't  be.  It  must  ha'  been  jMosby,  rigged 
out  loike  the  Yankees." 

A  gleam  of  hope  broke  upon  the  blacksmith. 
It  was  not  Mosby.  It  was  some  scouting  party  of 
Union  cavalry.  If  he  could  reach  them,  he  might 
yet  save  the  guide ;  for  the  Rebel  ranger  had  not  a 
hundred  men  with  him  on  the  mountain.  With  this 
thought  he  sprang  upon  his  fresh  animal,  saying, 
"  You  've  a  very  small  force  here  to  guard  so  large 
a  quantity  of  stores." 

"Thet  ar'  so,  stranger.  We  orter  hev  a  regiment 
instead  uv  a  sorry  company." 

This  was  all  the  information  the  blacksmith  want- 
ed, and  he  said  "  Good  morning  "  to  the  sentry. 

The  sun  had  now  risen,  gilding  the  leafy  woods, 
and  silvering  the  windings  of  the  beautiful  river  with 
all  the  hues  of  morning.  Some  of  its  beams  stole 
down  into  the  heart  of  the  blacksmith.  He  forgot 
the  perilous  way,  the  enemy  hidden  in  ever}^  house, 
the  Rebel  band  lurking  at  every  cross-road,  and 
thought  only  of  the  hundred  men  he  would  soon  be 
leading  to  the  Rebel  lair  on  the  mountain.  He 
rode  rapidly  forward,  and  a  short  half-hour  brought 
him  in  sight  of  the  bridge  over  the  Shenandoah. 
But  what  was  that  he  then  saw  glancing  among  the 


The  Ride  of  tJic  Blacksmith.  195 

trees  ?  A  tent ;  and  near  it,  half  a  dozen  horses 
ready-saddled.  Instinctively  he  drew  up  his  ani- 
mal ;  but  he  was  already  discovered,  and  two 
mounted  men  moved  out  into  the  highway.  It  was 
a  vedette  station ;  but  what  should  he  fear  ?  He 
had  the  key  that  would  open  the  pathway. 

"Good  morning,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  as  he  came 
nearly  abreast  of  the  horsemen. 

"Good  morning,"  they  answered.  "The  counter- 
sign." 

"  Confederates,"  he  responded,  carelessly  turning 
his  eyes  towards  the  tent  in  the  timber.  At  the 
entrance  of  the  tent  was  a  thing  that  anywhere  out 
of  the  South  would  be  a  natural  curiosity.  It  was 
an  immense  slouched  hat,  a  suit  of  greasy  "butter- 
nuts," and  a  scarecrow  of  a  man,  with  long  locks, 
sunken  eyes,  and  a  skin  of  untanned  leather.  He 
knew  the  blacksmith  well,  and  had  once  before 
waylaid  and  betrayed  him.  One  glance  was  enough 
for  the  blacksmith.  He  heard  the  words  "All 
right,"  as  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  bounded 
away  over  the  river. 

"'Tain't  all  right,"  shrieked  the  scarecrow,  rushing 
into  the  highway.  "  It  'r  old  Holley.  Shoot  him 
down ;  his  life  '11  make  any  on  ye  a  Cap'n ! " 

He   was   half  way  across   the   bridge ;   but   bullets 


196  TJie  Yoiuig  Virginian. 

began  to  sing,  and  horses'  heels  to  chime  in,  making 
a  terrible  chorus.  He  could  not  hope  to  outrun 
them.  His  other  horse  was  all  speed,  —  this  one 
was  all  bottom.  A  quick  thought  struck  him.  The 
bridge  was  twenty  feet  high ;  but  the  river  was  deep 
and,  broad,  and  he  would  trust  the  blue  water. 
Reining  up  his '  horse,  he  leaped  upon  the  railing, 
and  pressing  his  one  arm  to  his  side,  sank  down 
among  the  fishes.  The  Rebels  did  not  follow,  — 
not  being  of  the  family  of  Jonah.  They  would 
gather  in  the  middle  of  the  bridge,  and  fire  on  him 
again  when  he  came  to  the  surface  of  the  water. 
This  was  plain  to  the  blacksmith ;  so,  he  floated 
down  a  few  yards,  and  came  up  directly  under 
them,  against  one  of  the  abutments!  All  was  silent 
for  a  few  minutes,  then  he  heard  one  say,  "  WTiat  V 
become  on  the  old  critter?  Don't  he  hev  ter  breathe 
loike  we  folks?" 

"  I  reckon  he  won't  draw  breath  again,"  said  an- 
other. "  It 's  ordinary  to  come  up  three  times  j  but 
he  's  gone  straight  to  the  bottom." 

Then  the  blacksmith  heard  more  footsteps,  and 
soon  concluded  that  all  the  soldiers  on  the  station 
had  gathered  on  the  bridge  directly  above  him. 
Ocjcasionally  a  word  would  be  said ;  but  most  of 
them  seemed  to  be  intently  watching  the  water. 


The  Ride  of  the  Blacksmith.  197 

Some  fifteen  minutes  passed  in  this  way,  and  then 
he  heard  the  rapid  tread  of  a  horse  approaching  on 
the  western  side  of  the  river.  One  of  the  soldiers 
galloped  to  meet  the  horseman,  and  soon  the  usual 
words,  "  Halt !  The  countersign  !  "  came  over  the 
water.  In  a  few  minutes  more  the  two  horsemen 
rode  towards  the  knot  of  soldiers  on  the  bridge, 
and  one  of  them  said,  "  Sergeant,  this  man  says 
a  hundred  Yankee  cavalry  are  hid  in  the  woods 
just  north  of  Happy  Creek.  He  reckons  they  mean 
to  attack  us  as  soon  as  dark,  and  burn  the  stores 
at  Front  Royal." 

"  Pshaw  !  It  V  Mosby's  gang,"  answered  the  Ser- 
geant. 

"  I  reckon  not.  He  says  they  came  there  not  an 
hour  ago,  —  travelling  all  the  way  by  night.  He 
followed  them  from  about  six  miles  east  of  Millwood  ; 
and  they  seemed  to  want  to  keep  mighty  shady. 
Mosby  would  n't  do  that  round  here ;  and  I  saw  him 
only  the  day  before  yesterday  at  Flint  Hill,  and 
he  said  he  was  about  to  call  in  his  men  for  a  raid 
on  the  Yanks,  at  the  eastward." 

"  But  whar  ar'  our  folks,  thet  they  'low  a  handful 
of  Yanks  ter  creep  in  so  fur,  in  the  r'ar  uv  the  army  .<* " 
asked  the  Sergeant. 

"Thar  hain't  ten  gray-backs  this  side  of  Martins- 


198  The  Yojing  Virginian. 

burg,"  said  another  voice,  apparently  that  of  the 
bearer  of  the  tidings.  "Ye  see,  Early  roped  every- 
thing in,  'fore  he  fit  Av'rill  at  Winchester." 

"  Well,  let  'em  come  on,"  said  the  Sergeant,  "  they 
'11  hev  ter  come  over  this  yere  bridge,  and  our  thirty 
men  kin  hold  it  ag'in  thirty  hundred." 

"  But  the  Captain  ought  to  know  this,"  responded 
the  first  speaker. 

"  Yes  ;  s'pose  ye  tuck  the  man  on,  and  tell  him," 
said  the  Sergeant;  "and  boys,  every  one  on  ye  ter 
t'other  side.  Mount  and  be  ready.  The  man  Hol- 
ley  's  gone  to  the  fishes.  The  old  Shenandoah  ar' 
a  loyal  stream,  —  it  'r'  been  the  end  uv  one  traitor, 
sartin." 

When  they  were  gone,  the  blacksmith  floated  si- 
lently down  the  river,  and,  landing  half  a  rhile  below, 
made  his  way,  hatless  and  dripping  with  wet,  to 
the  Union  camp  in  the  woods  at  the  north  of  Happy 
Creek. 


The  Blacksmith  among  the  Yankees.      199 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

THE     BLACKSMITH    AMONG    THE    YANKEES. 

IT  is  easy  to  account  for  the  sudden  appearance 
of  this  body  of  Union  troops  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  Rebel  country.  Robert,  the  slave  boy,  when 
so  unceremoniously  ejected  by  the  guide  from  the 
ruined  building,  rushed  at  once  to  the  spot  in  the 
woods  where  the  horses  of  the  rangers  were  teth- 
ered. It  was  only  the  work  of  a  moment  to  un- 
fasten one  of  the  animals,  bound  upon  its  back, 
and,  amid  the  panic  and  confusion,  escape  to  the 
highway. 

Robert's  first  thought  was  of  personal  safety ;  then 
the  purpose  of  his  life  came  back  to  him  with  all 
its  grim  resolution.  In  an  instant  his  plan  was 
formed.  He  would  make  his  way  to  the  Union  lines, 
and  bring  back  a  force  to  capture  Mosby.  He  was 
a  prize  the  Yankees  would  value ;  and  they  might 
have  him  and  welcome,  if  by  their  aid  he  could 
wreak  his  vengeance  on  the  Captain.  The  guide 
had  said  there  were  not  fifty  men  at  the  Ranger's 
camp,  and  he  knew  its  location.     Mosby,  it  was  true, 


200  The  Young  Virginian. 

stayed  not  long  in  a  place,  and  could,  in  half  a  day, 
draw  in  two  hundred  men  from  the  country  around ; 
but  he  could  bring  a  larger  force,  track  the  Rebel 
wherever  he  went,  and,  in  sixty  hours,  be  upon  him. 
He  did  not  know  where  the  nearest  Union  troops 
were  stationed;  but  there  must  be  a  large  body  at 
Harper's  Ferry.  The  Ferry  was  more  than  fifty  miles 
away ;  but,  luckily,  he  had  taken  one  of  the  fleetest 
animals  in  the  troop,  and  could  be  there  b>^  morn- 
ing,—  if  he  killed  the  horse  with  the  journey.  He 
was  without  a  saddle ;  but,  to  one  bred  among  horses, 
bare-back  is  the  easier  way  of  riding.  But  speed, . 
not  ease,  was  the  thought  of  the  slave  boy. 

Bearing  away  along  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Ridge, 
with  the  intention  of  crossing  it  at  Snicker's  Gap, 
he  reached,  in  t^vo  hours,  the  little  town  of  Upper- 
ville,  and,  riding  into  its  silent  street,  came  upon 
a  man  whose  face  was  somewhat  darker  than  the 
moonlight  "  Uncle,"  he  said  to  him,  "  do  you  know 
where  the  nearest  Union  troops  are  stationed  ? " 

"  Dunno,  massa,  dun  no.  None  on  'em  stays  roun' 
yere ;  but  a  whole  lot  o'  'em  am  jess  gwine  up  de 
road  ter  Ashby's." 

"  How  many,  and  how  long  ago  ? " 

"  A  heap.     Nigh  onter  free  hundred,  I  reckon." 

"How  long  ago?" 


TJie  BlacksmitJi  avionsr  the   Yankees.     201 


"  Long  'go  ?  Wall,  leff  me  see,  massa ;  dis  darkey 
hed  ter  woke  up,  pull  on  him  clo'es,  and  den  peg 
out  ter  de  ole  'ooman's.  Dat  tuck  some  time,  sartin ; 
and  dey  'm  gone  by  'bout  so  much  longer." 

"Is  there  more  than  one  road?" 

"Only  one,  massa.  It  go  stret  fru  de  Gap.  Toi- 
ler it  right  smart,  and  you  '11  cotch  'em  in  no 
time." 

Without  another  word,  the  slave  boy  turned  square- 
ly to  the  left,  and  took  the  road  which  led  up  the 
Ridge.  Urging  his  horse  to  its  utmost  speed,  he 
was  soon  at  the  summit  of  the  Gap,  and  was  press- 
ing on  at  a  break-neck  pace,  when  a  loud  summons 
brought  his  animal  —  trained  to  obey  quickly  the 
word  of  command  —  to  a  sudden  halt. 

Before  the  word  was  half  spoken,  a  dozen  mounted 
men  sprang  from  the  trees  and  into  the  road,  com- 
pletely blocking  the  passage.  A  glance  at  their  uni- 
forms satisfied  the  slave  boy  that  he  was  among  the 
three  hundred.  One  of  them  rode  up  and  said  to 
him :  "  Who  are  you,  and  where  are  you  going  in  so 
much  of  a  hurry?" 

"  I  'm  seeking  you.  Be  good  enough  to  take  me 
to  your  Colonel,"  was  the  quick  answer. 

"Who  are  you,  and  what  do  you  want  with  our 
Colonel?" 

9* 


202  TJie  Young  Virginian. 

"I  'm  an  escaped  slave.  I  can  take  you  to  Mos- 
by's  camp  before  sunrise." 

"  The  Devil  you  can !  "  and  the  man  came  nearer, 
and  closely  scanned  Robert's  features.  "You  're 
light  for  a  slave,  but  the  chivalry  can  turn  black 
into  white.     Where  is  Mosby?" 

"At  Flint  Hill,  twenty-five  miles  to  the  south. 
Day  before  yesterday  he  had  n't  fiftj'  men  with  him, 
—  he  '11  have  only  twenty  more  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Well,  come  this  way,  our  Colonel  is  a  Major.  One 
of  you  boys  follow,  and  keep  an  eye  on  the  fellow." 
With  these  words  the  trooper  led  the  way  into  the 
wood,  and  up  a  sloping  ground,  to  a  narrow  plateau 
which  commanded  both  entrances  to  the  Gap,  and 
afforded  a  wide  view  of  the  surrounding  country. 

About  a  hundred  horses  were  picketed  among  the 
trees  on  this  plateau,  and  as  many  men  were  stretched 
on  the  ground  sleeping.  They  were  a  party  of  cav- 
alry which  had  left  Leesburg  at  sunset,  on  a  recon- 
noissance  as  far  westward  as  Millwood,  —  a  small 
town  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley  about  ten  miles 
south  of  Winchester.  Their  orders  were  to  pass 
down  to  Snicker's  Gap,  then  on  through  Ashby's 
Gap,  into  the  Valley;  returning  by  whatever  route 
they  found  most  feasible.  They  were  to  gather  ac- 
curate  information   of  the   strength   and  disposition 


TJie  Blacksmith  among  the   Yafikgcs.      203 

of  Early's  army ;  and  their  presence  clearly  indi- 
cated that  Averill  contemplated  dropping  down  from 
Harper's  Ferry,  crossing  the  Blue  Ridge  at  Snicker's 
or  Ashby's  Gap,  and  getting  into  Early's  rear,  to  cut 
him  off  from  supplies  and  reinforcements,  and  ob- 
tain a  decisive  victory.  It  was,  therefore,  a  most 
important  reconnoissance.  It  was  intrusted  to  a 
Yankee  Major,  plucky,  ambitious,  and  recklessly  in 
love  with  adventure ;  but  who  knew  no  more  about 
the  country  than  most  star-gazers  know  about  the 
moon.  The  troop  had  ridden  twenty-five  miles,  and 
halted  for  a  few  hours'  rest,  intending  to  resume  the 
march  before  morning. 

The  officer  lay  under  a  stunted  pine,  with  a  blan- 
ket under  his  head,  apparently  studying  the  heavenly 
bodies,  when  Robert  and  the  two  soldiers  approached 
him.  "  Major,"  said  the  picket  officer,  "  here  is  a 
fellow  that  offers  to  guide   us  to  Mosby." 

The  Major  sprang  to  his  feet,  saying,  "  Who  is 
he  ?     Where  is  Mosby  ?  " 

"  I  'm  a  slave,  sir,"  replied  Robert.  "  I  have 
been  forced  to  fight  against  you,  and  want  to  square 
accounts  by  doing  you  a  great  service." 

"  That  would  indeed  be  a  great  service.  Bring  a 
lantern,  —  let  me  have  a  look  at  the  man,"  said  the 
officer  in    a   quick,    nervous    manner.     His   imagina- 


.204  The  Young  Virginian. 

tion  took  fire  at  the  mere  mention  of  Mosby.  He 
would  gain  greater  distinction  by  his  capture,  than 
Averill  would  by  winning  a  great  battle,  and  it  might 
place  a  star  on  his  shoulder ;  so,  in  his  mind,  the 
reconnoissance  became  at  once  of  secondary  impor- 
tance. 

The  lantern  was  brought  and  hung  to  a  branch  of 
the  tree,  and  then  the  officer  said,  closely  scanning 
the  features  of  the  slave  boy,  "Sit  down,  my  friend. 
I  like  to  look  at  people  I  talk  with." 

Robert  sat  down,  as  much  at  his  ease  as  if  they 
were  equals ;  and  they  were  in  all  but  rank  and 
sound  judgment.  The  rank  was  on  the  side  of  the 
man  ;  the  judgment  on  the  side  of  the  boy ;  and 
the  matter  of  principle  was  pretty  evenly  divided 
between  them.  Neither  had  any  of  it,  or  any  ob- 
ject in  life  beyond  the  securing  of  their  personal 
ends. 

And  tlie  object  in  life,  let  me  say  to  the  young 
reader,  is  what  makes  the  radical  difference  between 
bad  men  and  good,  devils  and  angels.  Both  Luci- 
fer and  Gabriel,  if  accounts  are  true,  are  what  we 
call  gentlemen,  — with  polished  manners,  cultivated 
minds,  and  great  natural  abilities ;  but  one  seeks 
only  his  own  ends,  the  other  the  good  of  others. 
The   heart   of  one   centres   in  himself,  the  heart  of 


The  Blacksmith  among  the   Yankees.     205 

the  other  embraces  the  universe.  But  this  Httle 
homily  has  led  me  away  from  my  story.  The  lan- 
tern which  gave  the  man  a  glance  at  the  boy's  ex- 
terior gave  the  boy  a  full  view  of  the  man's  interior. 
With  the  keen  penetration  of  his  race,  he  read  him 
as  he  would  have  read  an  open  book,  and  at  once 
detected  the  hidden  springs  of  his  nature.  Adroitly 
shaping  his  communications  to  serve  his  purposes, 
he  made  what  was  in  truth  a  most  hazardous 
enterprise  seem  a  mere  holiday  adventure,  and  in 
half  an  hour  had  the  real  command'  of  the  troop 
of  cavalr}^ 

The  Major  called  a  council  of  his  officers  and 
laid  the  project  before  them,  but  it  met  with  no 
approval.  One  of  them,  a  weather-beaten  veteran 
who  had  risen  from  the  ranks,  gav^  it  decided  op- 
position. "  You  must  obey  orders,"  he  said  bluntly, 
"go  on  to  Millwood,  or  lose  your  commission.  If 
you  go  dowTi,  there  on  the  west  of  the  Ridge,  and 
attempt  to  cross  below,  you  may  get  caught  in  a 
trap  from  which  there  '11  be  no  escape.  We  know 
there  's  a  considerable  force  in  Manassas  Gap ; 
there  may  be  one  at.  Front  Royal  strong  enough  to 
stop  us  at  the  bridge  over  the  Shenandoah.  If 
there  is,  we  '11  have  to  fall  back,  and  return  over 
the  Ridge  at   this   or   Snicker's   Gap.     At   Snicker's 


2o6  The  You7ig  Virginian. 

we  know  there  's  a  body  of  Rebels,  and  thirty  de- 
termined men  could  hold  this  gap  against  twice  our 
number.  The  country  people  will  give  news  of  our 
passing,  and  bushwhackers  enough  to  defend  this 
road  will  collect  here  in  a  day ;  and  then  we  shall 
be  forced  north,  right  into  the  jaws  of  Early.  In 
my  judgment,  the  only  way  to  approach  Flint  Hill 
is  from  the  east  of  the  Ridge.  If  we  had  time  and 
it  would  not  interfere  with  the  reconnoissance,  we 
might  make  a  detour  to  avoid  the  Rebels  at  Ma- 
nassas Gap,  and  be  down  upon  Mosby  by  noon  to- 
morrow ;  but  we  have  n't  time,  and  it  would  inter- 
fere with  the  reconnoissance." 

"  But,"  answered  the  Major,  "  you  forget  that  the 
bridge  at  Front  Royal  is  not  guarded;  and  that 
the  very  boldness  of  the  enterprise  will  insure  its 
success.  It  would  ring  through  the  country  like 
Mosby's  capture  of  Stoughton." 

"  If  it  succeeded  !  Mosby  sent  his  spies  ahead, 
and  took  Stoughton  under  cover  of  a  dark,  rainy 
night,  knowing  every  inch  of  the  way.  We  have 
no  reliable  information,  and  shall  have  to  pass  Front 
Royal)  and  travel  twenty  miles  by  daylight,  through 
a  country  where  we  shall  be  surrounded  by  Rebel 
troops,  and  every  other  white  man  will  run  his  legs 
oflf  to  give  them  information." 


The  Blacksmith  among  the   Yankees.     207 

"  But  we  have  information,"  replied  the  Major. 
"This  young  man  is  right  from  there,  and  says  no 
force  is  at  Front  Royal." 

"Front  Royal  is  a  depot  of  supplies.  It  isn't 
likely  the  Rebels  would  leave  it  unguarded." 

"Are  you  sure  there  are  no  troops  at  Front 
Royal?"  then  asked  the  Major  of  the  slave  boy. 

"There  were  none  the  day  before  yesterday, — 
so  one  of  Mosby's  men  told  me  not  six  hours 
ago.  He  thought  none  were  there  yesterday,"  an- 
swered Robert,  with  the  look  and  tone  of  simple 
honest>\  This  was  the  second  falsehood  he  had 
told  on  the  subject ;  but  one  untruth  always  costs 
another.  And  yet  he  did  not  mean  to  entrap  the 
cavalry.  He  knew  he  was  luring  them  into  great 
danger,  but  his  own  ends  could  not  be  ser\^ed 
without  he  led  them  safely  to  Mosby.  He  was 
confident  that  the  bridges  over  the  Shenandoah  were 
guarded,  but  they  could,  he  thought,  force  a  passage  ; 
if  not  at  Front  Royal,  then  below  at  Thornton's  Gap, 
a  little  to  the  southwest  of  Flint  Hill. 

"We  go!  Captain  Mansfield,"  said  the  Major, 
with  a  wave  of  the  hand,  which  might  have  become 
one  of  the  chivalry.     "  Order  the  men  to  horse." 

In  ten  minutes  they  were  on  the  way,  and  just 
after   daylight   halted   in  a  thick  wood  near  Happy 


2o8  The  Yomig  Virginia7i. 

Creek,  to  breakfast  the  men  and  horses,  and  recon- 
noitre the  road  before  attempting  the  passage  of  the 
Shenandoah.  Two  of  the  men,  arrayed  for  the  oc- 
casion in  the  homespun  of  the  district,  had  gone  off 
on  the  reconnoissance,  and  the  rest  were  scattered 
about  among  the  trees  boihng  their  imorning  coffee, 
when  Captain  Mansfield  approached  the  Major  with 
the  blacksmith. 

"  Here  is  a  gentleman.  Major,"  he  said,  "  who 
can  give  you  very  valuable  information." 

The  blacksmith,  just  emerged  from  his  bath  in 
the  river,  had  walked  in  his  dripping  clothes  three 
miles  through  the  swamps  and  underbrush,  and  did 
not  make  a  very  presentable  appearance,  yet  the 
Captain  introduced  him  as  a  gentleman.  The  same 
instinct  which  had  led  him  to  distrust  the  slave  boy 
impressed  him  with  this  man's  true  character. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Holley ! "  exclaimed  Robert,  spring- 
ing to  his  feet,  and  speaking  to  the  Major,  "  the 
man  we  rescued  at  the  old  meeting-house." 

"Indeed,"  said  the  Major,  "I  am  glad  to  see  you, 
Mr.  Holley ;  glad  to  see  you  are  out  of  the  grip  of 
the  Rebels." 

"I  thank  you,  sir.  How  do  you  happen  to  be 
here,  Robert?"  answered  the  blacksmith,  with  a  look 
of  surprise  at  the  slave  boy. 


The  Blacksmith  among  the   Yankees.      209 

"  I  am  leading  the  troop  to  the  capture  of  Mosby. 
Have  you  come  by  Front  Royal  ? " 

"  Yes,  and  across  tJie  river  by  swimming,"  an- 
swered the  blacksmith,   smiling. 

"  Are  there  Rebels  there  ? "  asked  the  Major. 

"  Yes,  enough  to  hold  the  bridge  against  you  ;  and 
they  know  you  are  coming." 

"And  how  is  it  at  Thornton's  Gap.?"  asked  Rob- 
ert. 

"  Mosby  has  a  squad  always  there,"  answered  the 
blacksmith. 

"  Then  we  are  entrapped  !  "  said  the  Captain,  with 
a  firm  pressure  of  his  lips,  and  an  angry  glance  at 
Robert.  "I  suspected  this  fellow  from  the  start. 
Major.  I  never  knew  one  of  his  mongrel  breed  that 
was  not  as  false  and  treacherous  as  the  Devil." 

The  slave  bo/s  face  grew  ashy  pale,  his  eyes  gave 
out  a  lurid  glow,  and  a  fierce  word  came  to  his 
lips  ;  but  he  choked  it  back  unspoken.  It  cost 
him  an  effort,  —  such  an  effort  as  it  takes  to  dam 
a  mountain-stream  in  mid-winter,  —  but  he  did  it. 
Powerful  natures  have  powerful  wills,  and  an  out- 
break might  have  defeated  a  purpose  dearer  to  him 
than  revenge  for  a  passing  insult. 

The  blacksmith  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  I  know 
the  boy,"  he  said,  looking  straight  at  Robert.    "  He 


210  The  Yoicng  Virginia7i. 

has  his  own  ends  to  serve ;  but  has  not  meant  to 
betray  you.     If  he  did,  he  would  miss  his  object." 

"  But  he  has  led  us  into  danger,  you  think  ? "  asked 
the  Major,  who  seemed  to  be  awaking  to  the  peril 
into  which  he  had  been  drawn,  not  more  by  Robert 
than  by  his  own  folly  and  ambition. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  blacksmith,  "into  great 
danger.  You  are  surrounded  by  Rebels'.  You  can't 
go  twenty  miles,  I  think,  in  any  direction  without 
coming  upon  them.  You  can't  cross  the  Shenan- 
doah by  any  of  the  bridges.  Your  only  way  out 
is  by  swimming  the  river,  and  getting  over  the  Ridge 
by  some  of  the  bridle-paths  used  by  the  country 
people.  But  to  do  that  you  must  move  quick  and 
secretly;  for  if  your  route  is  known,  you  '11  have 
twice  your  force  upon  you  by  nightfall." 

"  Can  we  swim  the  river  ?  Can  you  guide  us  to 
one  of  these  bridle-paths  ? "  asked  the  Major  with 
almost  breathless  eagerness. 

"You  can  float  the  men  across  on  a  raft,  and 
swim  the  horses  alongside.  I  know  some  of  the 
paths,  and  think  I  can  find  one  that  will  lead  you 
over  the  Ridge  before  dark." 

"  Let  us  set  about  the  thing  at  once,"  said  the  Ma- 
jor.    "Where  shall  we  strike  the  river?" 

"A  few  miles   below  it   makes  a  bend    towards 


TJie  Blacksmith  amo7i^  t/ie   Yankees.      2 1  i 


i> 


the  Gap  railroad.  You  will  be  seen  as  soon  as  you 
begin  to  move ;  for,  in  coming  from  the  river,  I 
had  to  run  from  half  a  dozen  country-men  who  were 
watching  you.  If  you  go  down  the  road  a  few  miles, 
they  will  think  you  are  meaning  to  attack  the  force 
at  Manassas  Gap,  and  will  post  off  with  the  news, 
and  the  Rebels  will  draw  in  every  man  to  meet  you. 
That  will  leave  the  coast  clear,  and  you  can  slip 
into  the  woods  along  the  river,  gather  dead  logs 
enough  to  build  a  raft,  and  be  safely  on  the  other 
side  in  an  hour." 

"We  will  do  it.  You  are  a  godsend  to  us,  Mr. 
Holley,"  said  the  Major  warmly. 

In  a  few  moments  the  two  disguised  countrj-men 
returned  with  the  tidings  that  a  company  of  Rebels, 
with  a  brass  six-pounder,  were  holding  the  bridge 
over  the  Shenandoah!  "All  right.  Major,"  said  the 
blacksmith,  as  he  proceeded  to  exchange  his  wet 
suit  for  the  slouched  hat  and  dry  "  butternuts  "  of  one 
of  the  counterfeit  "  natives."  "  The  more  frightened 
they  are,  the  better,  for  they  '11  keep  together,  and 
not  attempt  to  follow  us." 

The  soldiers'  half-eaten  breakfast  was  thrust  into 
their  haversacks,  and  they  set  out  to  make  the  cross- 
ing. In  two  hours  they  were  safely  over  the  river, 
and  had  begun  the  difficult  ascent  of  the  Ridge.     It 


212  The  Young  Virginian. 

was  not  an  open  gap,  with  gently  ascending  slopes, 
but  a  steep,  narrow  path,  covered  with  loose  stones, 
and  now  and  then  obstructed*  with  fallen  trees,  over 
which  the  horses  stumbled,  often  losing  their  foothold 
and  rolling  down  the  mountain.  But  they  toiled  up 
the  difficult  way,  every  man  afoot,  leading  his  floun- 
dering animal,  and  at  last  reached  the  summit  of  the 
Ridge,  foot-sore  and  weary.  No  accident  befell  the 
men,  but  two  or  three  poor  beasts  were  left  behind, 
with  broken  limbs,  to  die  slowly  from  want  of  food, 
or  to  be  eaten  alive  by  the  wolves  and  bears  which 
infest  that  region. 

After  a  long  halt  they  began  to  descend,  and, 
about  an  hour  before  sunset,  came  in  sight  of  the 
high-road  which  runs  along  the  eastern  slope  of  the 
mountain.  There  they  paused,  and  waited  until  night- 
fall. They  had  escaped  from  the  trap,  and,  no  doubt, 
baffled  all  pursuit,  and  were  within  twelve  miles  of 
the  camp  of  the  rangers ;  but,  by  the  advice  of  the 
blacksmith,  delayed  setting  out  to  attack  Mosby  until 
then  movements  should  be  covered  by  the  darkness. 
Before  that  came,  an  event  occurred  which  I  cannot 
explain  without*  writing  another  chapter. 


At  Mosbys.  213 


CHAPTER    XVII 


AT    MOSBY  S. 


X  T  /"E   left   the   guide   lying   by   the   side   of   his 

'  ^  fallen  horse,  and  the  rangers  pursuing  him 
over  the  broken  bridge  on  the  mountain."  The 
Sergeant  was  the  first  to  approach.  "Jake,"  he 
said,   "  is  ye  much  hurt  1 " 

"  Not  bad,  Sargint,  I  reckon,"  answered  the  guide, 
"Betz  didn't  pick  a  soft  spot  ter  kim  down  on, 
and  I  couldn't  git  my  leg  from  under.  I  feels  it 
broke  jest  'bove   the  ankle,  thet's  all." 

A  half-dozen  of  the  rangers  had  now  gathered 
round,  and  among  them  was  the  man  who  made 
the  nocturnal  exploration  of  the  torrid  regions. 
"Jake,"  he  said,  "ye  beats  all  the  sperrets  I  uver 
knowed  on  ;  but  't  war  a  durned  purty  business  fur 
a  loyal  man  ter  be  at.  I  reckon  ye  '11  git  inter  one 
o'  them  ovens  as  I  telled  on  mighty  sudden." 

The  guide  made  no  reply,  only  looked  at  the  man 
in  an  absent  way,  as  if  his  thoughts  were  busy  with 
other  things;  but  the  Sergeant  said  in  an  angry  tone, 
"Sanders,  shut  up,  nary  un  but  a  coward  uver  hits 


214  '^^^^  Yoiuig  'Virginian. 

a  man  when  he  'r  down ;  Jake  ar'  a  decenter  feller 
nur  ye  '11  uver  git  ter  be,  ef  he  has  helped  a — " 

He  did  not  pronounce  the  word,  it  seemed  to 
stick  in  his  throat;  but  the  other  helped  out  the 
sentence.  "A  durned  ole  traitor,"  he  said.  "Ter 
yere  him  tork,  ye  'd  s'pose  he  hed  a  patent  right  ter 
all  thet  's  good  in  the  universe.  But  them  blatin* 
saints  is  the  biggest  devils.  As  I  'se  telled  ye,  the 
ole  feller  hisself  ar'  a  Methodist  parson." 

The  Sergeant  was  now  seriously  angered,  and 
turning  on  the  man,  said,  "  Shet  up,  and  git  across 
thet  bridge  ter  onst,  or  I  '11  pitch  ye  head  fust  down 
the  presurpiss.     I  will ! " 

The  man  turned  sulkily  away,  and  went  over  to 
where  the  rest  of  the  rangers  were  with  the  horses ; 
and  the  Sergeant  said  to  the  guide,  kindly,  "  I 
s'pose  we'll  hev  ter  git  ye  ter  the  camp,  Jake. 
The  ole  man  has  shot  off  the  stret  road.  Does  ye 
know  a  short  cut  ter  the  meetin'-house  ? " 

"  Beyont  yere  a  ways  ar'  a  bridle-path  as  goes 
stret  ter  it.  'Tain't  more  'n  two  mile,"  answered 
the  guide. 

"Wall,"  said  the  Sergeant,  "one  on  ye  go  over 
the  bridge,  and  fotch  some  o'  the  blankets ;  we  '11 
rig  out  a  stretcher,  and  tote  Jake  down  the  bridle- 
path, while  the  rest  tucks  the  nags  round  the  road." 


At  Mosbys.  215 

The  man  did  as  he  was  bidden,  and  the  blankets 
being  stretched  across  two  long  poles,  Jake  was 
soon  extricated  from  the  fallen  horse,  and  placed 
on  the  improvised  litter.  Some  pine-knots  being 
gathered  to  light  the  way  through  the  woods,  four 
of  the  party,  with  the  Sergeant  at  their  head,  then 
set  out  to  bear  the  wounded  man  down  the  moun- 
tain. It  was  the  torches  of  this  party  which  the 
blacksmith  had  seen  when  he  turned  and  looked 
back  while  on  his  way  to  Front  Royal.  Their  pace 
was  slow,  for  the  path  was  obstructed  with  fallen 
trees,  and  overhanging  branches,  and  the  sun  had 
risen  when  they  came  in  sight  of  the  old  church  at 
the  cross-roads. 

The  Captain  lay  near  the  road  under  a  tree,  a 
rude  crutch  resting  by  his  side ;  and  the  other  troop- 
ers sat  their  horses  in  front  of  the  ruined  building. 
James  held  the  reins  of  the  blacksmith's  wagon,  and 
all  were  in  readiness  to  set  out ;  for  the  rangers  who 
had  made  the  circuit  of  the  high-road  had  already 
arrived  with  tidings  of  the  guide's  capture  and  con- 
dition. 

As  the  litter  approached,  the  Captain  struggled  to 
his  feet,  and  limping  forward,  said  to  the  Sergeant, 
"  Put  him  into  the  wagon,  and  handle  him  carefully. 
His  broken  leg  must  be  painful." 


2i6  The  Young  Virginian. 

"  But  how 's  ye  a-gwine  ter  git  along  ? "  asked  the 
Sergeant 

"I  can  ride  a  horse.  Half  an  hour's  motion  will 
make  my  thigh  as  limber  as  ever." 

Some  blankets  were  in  the  bottom  of  the  wagon, 
and  on  them  they  laid  the  wounded  man ;  and  then 
the  troop  set  out,  walking  their  horses  slowly  to 
avoid  giving  the  vehicle  any  unnecessary  motion. 
The  horsemen  went  before,  and  the  wagon  and  the 
Captain  followed.  When  the  cavalcade  had  gone  a 
short  distance,  the  latter  rode  up  alongside  the  ve- 
hicle, and,  in  a  low  tone,  said  to  the  guide,  "  You  're 
a  true,  brave  man.  I  ask  your  pardon  for  the  rough 
words  I  gave  you.  Be  prepared  for  the  worst;  but 
I  shall  get  you  off  if  it 's  a  possible  thing." 

"I  thanks  ye,  Cap'n.  I  went  inter  this  with  my 
eyes  open,  and  I  'm  ready  ter  go  it  ter  the  eend.  I 
nuver  shirked  nothin'  yet." 

"I  know,"  said  the  Captain,  "but  be  careful 
what  you  admit.  They  can  prove  nothing,  except 
that  you  were  found  with  the  blacksmith." 

No  m.ore  was  said,  and  they  rode  slowly  on  up  the 
mountain. 

Several  hours  before  noon  they  emerged  from  the 
forest,  and  entered  a  broad  clearing  midway  up  the 
side  of  Flint  Hill,— -one  of  the  more  bold  of  the 


At  Mosbys.  217 

long  range  of  mountains  which  traverses  the  whole 
of  Middle  Virginia.  Though  a  clearing,  and  in  full 
cultivation  as  a  plantation,  the  opening  was  dotted 
here  and  there  with  groves  of  great  forest-trees ;  and 
in  one  of  these  groves  was  the  camp  of  the  Rebel 
highwayman.  The  camp  —  if  that  can  be  called  a 
camp  which  is  without  a  single  tent  —  was  a  collec- 
tion of  curiously  shaped  houses,  built  of  cypress 
branches  and  laurel  twigs,  and  as  green  and  rustic 
as  the  mansion  in  which  Adam  and  Eve  dwelt  be- 
fore they  went  out  to  work  for  a  living.  Among 
them  were  robbers'  caves,  and  philosophers'  grottos ; 
Lapland  huts,  and  Patagonian  hovels  j  Gothic  cot- 
tages, and  Indian  wigwams;  Chinese  pagodas,  and 
—  even  the  two-story  tenements,  brown  as  a  brick 
(built  of  deciduous  boughs  already  sere  and  faded) 
and  square  as  a  packing-box,  which  ornament  the 
streets  of  some  Northern  towns.  Such  a  grotesque 
group  of  human  habitations  never  was  seen.  They 
appeared  unfit  homes  for  freebooters,  and  seemed  to 
imply  that  among  the  lawlesss  horde  was  at  least  one 
whose  mind  was  "above  his  business."  The  man 
who  could  create  forms  so  picturesque  and  beautiful 
as  those  fashioned  in  that  rough  carpentry  might 
be  "very  far  gone  from  original  righteousness,"  but 
could  not  be  "wholly  given  over  to  evil." 
10 


2i8  •    TJie  You  Jig  Virginian. 

Entering  one  of  the  numerous  paths  which  wound 
about  this  rustic  hamlet,  the  troop  halted  abreast  of 
the  largest  structure,  and  the  Captain  accosted  a 
dismounted  horseman  who  was  standing  in  its  door- 
way. Without  heeding  his  respectful  and  rather  cor- 
dial salutation,  the  horseman  looked  the  trooper 
coldly  in  the  eye,  and  said,  curtly,  "Well,  have  you 
bagged  the  game?" 

"No.  I  caught  him,  but  he  got  away.  My  meu 
say  he  's  in  league  with  the  Devil,  —  it  's  certain 
he  's  hard  to  hold." 

"I  '\i  have  him,"  growled  the  other,  through  his 
barred  teeth,  "  if  it  costs  me  my  life ;  but  I  see  I 
must  send  a  better  man  than  you  after  him." 

"  Go  yourself  then.  You  're  the  best  man  I  know 
—  in  your  own  opinion,"  blurted  out  the  trooper 
in  a  rage. 

"  Come,  come,  none  of  that,  Captain.  You  and 
I  must  n't  quarrel,"  said  the  other,  holding  out  his 
hand,  while  a  frank,  pleasant  smile  overspread  his 
face. 

"I  was  hasty.  Colonel.  I  ask  your  pardon,"  an- 
swered the  Captain,  with  equal  frankness. 

This,  then,  was  the  famous  guerilla,  Mosby.  James 
watched  him  with  some  interest,  for  the  fate  of  the 
guide  was  in  his  hands.     The  examination  was  not 


At  Mosbys.  219 

altogether  assuring.  Beneath  his  careless  exterior, 
he  thought  there  lurked  a  reckless,  desperate  spirit, 
which  might,  when  aroused,  do  acts  of  great  wick- 
edness. He  was  of  slender,  but  athletic  frame, 
about  the  medium  height,  with  light  brown  hair,  a 
well-formed  head,  regular  features,  large  gray  eyes, 
and  a  dark,  sun-browned  complexion.  He  wore  the 
gray  uniform  of  a  Confederate  Colonel,  with  high 
top-boots,  and  a  slouched  hat,  but  as  he  stood  there, 
one  hand  grasping  the  bridle-rein  of  his  horse,  —  a 
powerful  iron-gray  with  flowing  mane  and  tail,  —  he 
looked  anything  but  the  black-browed  ruffian  he  has 
been  pictured  by  his  enemies. 

"Who  have  you  here?"  he  said,  resting  his  eye 
on  James,  and  a  pleasant  smile  playing  over  his 
features  ;  "  a  new  recruit .'' " 

"  Yes :  a  Yankee  boy  I  picked  up  at  Major 
Lucy's,"  said  the  Captain,  "  and  one  of  our  men 
wounded." 

"What!  Jake!"  exclaimed  Mosby,  coming  forward. 
"Why,  I  thought  you  always  dodged  the  bullets!" 

The  guide  looked  up,  but  said  nothing.  The 
Captain  answered,  "  His  horse  fell  on  him,  and  mine 
did  the  same  with  me.  I  want  the  surgeon  to  set 
his  leg,  and  look  a  little  after  mine ;  and  then. 
Colonel,  as  I  'm  lame,  suppose  you  come  to  my 
tent,  if  you  want  to  talk  things  over." 


220  TJie  Yoimg  Virginian. 

"  Well,  I  will ;  say  in  an  hour." 

The  wagon  then  moved  on  to  the  surgeon's  quar- 
ters; and  while  the  guide's  leg  was  being  attended 
to,  James  and  the  Captain  sat  down  to  a  frugal  din- 
ner in  the  rustic  house  appropriated  to  the  latter. 

In  the  midst* of  the  ftieal  Mosby  appeared  in  the 
doonvay.  His  face  no  longer  wore  its  habitual 
smile,  —  unless  you  call  a  smile  that  lurid  glow  of 
the  sky  which  sometimes  precedes  a  thunder-storm. 
In  a  quick,  excited  way,  he  said,  "What  is  this? 
Did  Jake  help  the  blacksmith  to  get  away?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Captain,  coolly.  "  Sit  down. 
I  want  to  talk  with  you  about  it." 

"  Talk  about  it !  You  say  he  did  it,  —  that  's 
enough.     He  shall  hang  within  an  hour." 

"  He  's  a  true  man.  Colonel.  He  only  did  what 
you  would  have  done  in  the  same  circumstances." 

"I  trusted  him,  and  he  has  betrayed  me.  That 
is  enough ;  I  don't  want  to  know  any  more ;  he 
shall  hang."  A  terrible  oath  followed,  and  he  turned 
to  leave  the  tent. 

The  Captain  thrust  his  crutch  across  the  opening, 
and  said,  "  You  can't  go  till  you  've  heard  what  I 
have  to  say.     I  've  a  right  to  a  hearing." 

"  Obligations  grow  troublesome  when  we  are  re- 
minded of  them,"  said  Mosby,  with  a  sneer. 


At  Mosbys.  221 

"  You  don't  need  to  be  reminded  of  them," 
answered  the  Captain,  not  noticing  the  other's  man- 
ner. "  If  you  do,  you  're  not  the  man  I  've  taken 
you  for." 

The  guerilla  leader  then  sat  down  and  said,  im- 
patiently, "  Well,  go  on ;  but  make  the  story  short. 
I  have  much  to  do.     AVe  must  move   to-night." 

The  Captain  requested  James  to  go  outside,  to 
see  that  no  one  was  within  hearing,  and  to  remain 
there  until  the  conference  was  over.  It  lasted  an 
hour ;  and  then  the  two  came  to  the  doorway,  and 
James  heard  the  leader  say,  "  Well,  I  '11  do  it,  if 
I'm  satisfied  the  fellow  is  honest.    Where  is  he?" 

"At  the  Surgeon's,  I  reckon,"  answered  the  Cap- 
tain ;  and  then,  speaking  to  James,  he  a.dded,  "  Here, 
my  boy,  give  me  your  shoulder." 

The  boy  obeyed,  and  the  tw^o  men,  the  one  walk- 
ing, the  other  hobbling,  went  on  to  the  quarters 
of  the  Surgeon.  The  guide's  leg  had  been  set,  and 
he  had  been  removed  to  the  Sergeant's.  At  the 
Sergeant's  a  half-dozen  of  the  rangers  were  collected, 
talking  in  subdued  tones,  —  such  tones  as  one  hears 
in  a  sick-chamber,  —  and  the  guide,  stretched  on  the 
ground,  on  a  pile  of  blankets,  was  sleeping  soundly. 

As  he  entered,  Mosby  said,  "Clear  the  tent,  Ser- 
geant, I  want  to  talk  with  this  man." 


222  TJie  Young  Virginian. 

"  Sartin,  Gunnel,"  answered  the  Sergeant ;  and  in 
a  moment  the*  boy  and  the  two  officers  were  left  alone 
with  the  guide,  who  continued  sleeping.  Mosby 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder,  saying,  "Jake,  wake 
up  ;  wake  up." 

The  guide  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  his 
officer.  Then  raising  himself  suddenly  to  his  elbow, 
he  said,  hurriedly :  "  Why,  Gunnel,  ar'  it  ye  ?  I  ax 
yer  pardon ;  but  I  'se  been  a-stirrin'  these  two  nights ; 
and  thet,  an'  the  pain  o'  the  bone-settin',  has  a'most 
tuckered  me  out." 

Mosby  looked  him  steadily  in  the  face  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said,  "Jake,  why  did  you  do 
this  ? " 

"  I  could  n't  holp  it,  Gunnel.  The  old  man  brung 
me  up.  He  tuck  me  when  my  mother  war  a-dyin' ; 
and  uver  sence  he  's  been  more  'n  a  father  ter  me, 
and  the  ma'am  more  'n  a  mother.  Ef  I  had  n't 
done  it.  Gunnel,  I  could  n't  ha'  luck'd  ye,  nur  no 
other  honest  man,  in  the  face." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  how  you  were  related 
to  him,  when  I  sent  you  to  guide  the  party." 

"  'Gase  ef  I  had,  ye  would  n't  ha'  sent  me,"  an- 
swered Jake,  smiling. 

"  And  then  you  meant  to  betray  me,  from  the 
start  ? " 


At  Mosby's.  jj3 

"  Yes,  Gunnel,  I  did ;  and  I  was  durned  afeared 
onst  that  ye  would  n't  let  me  go." 

The  other  sprang  to  his  feet,  greatly  enraged, 
and  said,  "  You  shall  die.  In  half  an  hour  I  '11 
hang  you." 

The  guide  said  nothing;  but  his  features  did  not 
move,  his  eye  did  not  quail,  and  his  mouth  wore 
the  quiet  smile  it  wore  when  he  spoke  the  last  words. 
He  had  evidently  made  up  his  mind  for  the  worst. 
*The  ranger  took  a  step  or  two  towards  the  door, 
but  suddenly  turned,  and  strode  to  the  farther  end 
of  the  little  room,  and  then  strode  back  again  ;  all 
the  while  keeping  his  eye  fixed  on  the  face  of  the 
guide.  A  struggle  seemed  to  be  going  on  within 
him,  —  the  struggle  between  passion  and  principle, 
evil  and  good,  which  every  man  has  felt,  and  will 
feel  so  long  as  he  belongs  to  the  race  of  Adam.  At 
last  he  stopped  in  his  walk,  and  said  to  the  guide, 
"  You  were  going  to  the  Union  lines  .'* " 

"  Yes,  Gunnel ;  but  not  ter  fight  ag'in  ye.  I  loves 
old  Virginny  as  well  as  ye,  or  ary  other  man." 

"Then  why  were  you  going?  Nobody  saw  you 
at  the  meeting-house." 

"  I  did  n't  know  thet ;  and  I  know'd  ef  they  did, 
ye  'd  hang  me  ter  the  fust  tree.  I  war  n't  anxious 
for  thet ;  so  I  guv  ye  my  mar's  legs." 


224  The  Young  Virgifiian. 

"  Well,  Jake ;  you  mean  honest,  and  I  '11  give  you 
the  chance  of  a  trial.  What  you  Ve  said,  I  '11  not 
use  against  you ;  but  I  can't  trust  you  again.  You 
must  leave  the  troop." 

"  I  thanks  ye,  Gunnel.  I  allers  'sisted  ye  war 
a  gentleman." 

The  others  then  left  the  tent ;  and  as  they  passed 
out,  the  Captain  said  to  Mosby,  "  Are  you  sending 
runners  out  to  call  in  the  men?" 

"Yes." 

"Let  Sanders  go.  He  has  an  ill-feeling  towards 
Jake,  and  his  evidence  might  be  against  him." 

"Very  well.     Let  somebody  give  him  the  order." 


A  Strange  Career.  225 


CHAPTER    XVUI. 

A     STRANGE     CAREER. 

WHEN  they  resumed  their  seats  at  the  table 
of  the  Captain,  the  boy  said :  "He  is  not 
so  bad  a  man  as  I  have  heard  he  was." 

"  Bad  !  "  echoed  the  Captain.  "  He  has  some  of 
the  best  traits  I  ever  knew  in  any  one ;  and  besides, 
he  's  an  educated  man  and  a  gentleman." 

The  boy  smiled  as  he  answered,  "  I  suppose  Mr. 
Holley  would  say  that  might  depend  on  your  defi- 
nition of  a  gentleman." 

"Well,  he  might,"  replied  the  Captain,  laughing; 
"but  barring  his  habit  of  swearing,  and  his  want  of 
control  over  his  passions,  Mosby  is  a  gentleman  by 
any  definition.  He  has  good  impulses,  fights  from 
pure  love  of  the  South,  and  came  of  a  good  family. 
I  know,  for  we  've  been  together  ever  since  he  had 
a  separate  command,  and  were  in  the  same  class  in 
college.  Before  the  war  he  was  a  laviyer;  but  when 
Virginia  seceded,  enlisted  under  Stuart  as  a  private. 
He  soon  rose  to  be  a  first  lieutenant,  and,  being 
bold  and  active,  was  employed  in  the  scouting  ser- 


226  The  Young  Virginian. 

vice.  While  on  this  duty  he  would,  alone,  or  with 
a  small  party  of  mounted  men,  hover  round  the  Fed- 
eral lines,  and  capture  their  pickets,  or  gather  in- 
formation of  their  movements.  One  dark  night, 
with  only  nine  men,  he  attacked  several  regiments 
of  Union  cavalry,  and  put  them  to  flight,  they  sup- 
posing he  had  a  whole  division.  At  another  time 
he  w^ent  alone  into  the  Union  lines,  and  was  coming 
away  with  all  the  information  he  wanted,  when,  just 
outside  of  their  pickets,  he  captured  two  Yankee  sol- 
diers. He  had  disarmed  the  men^  and  they  were 
riding  along  together,  when,  turning  a  bend  in  the 
road,  they  came  suddenly  on  a  party  of  Union  cav- 
alry. Mosby  drew  his  overcoat  about  him,  and 
cocking  his  pistol,  said  to  the  men,  'Speak  a  word, 
or  make  a  sign,  and  I  '11  blow  your  brains  out.'  The 
men  took  the  hint,  and  after  riding  along  a  while 
with  the  column,  Mosby  edged  off,  and  got  safely 
back  to  camp  with  his  prisoners.  He  has  done  a 
thousand  such  things,  and  only  once  been  cap- 
tured." 

"And  how  was  that.?"  asked  the  boy. 

'•'He  had  gone  with  a  message  from  General  Stu- 
art to  General  Jackson,  then  in  the  Shenandoah  Val- 
ley, and  w^as  feeding  his  horse  at  a  station  on  the 
Central  Railroad,  when  a  squad  of  Yankee  cavalry 


A   Strafigc  Career.  227 

came  suddenly  on  him.  They  captured  his  de- 
spatch, and  sent  him  to  the  Old  Capitol  prison. 
He  was  soon  exchanged,  and  at  Hampton  Roads, 
accidentally  heard  that  Burnside  was  moving  to 
reinforce  Pope  at  Culpepper.  He  hurried  with  the 
information  to  General  Lee,  and  it  was  no  doubt 
that  which  led  Jackson  to  attack  and  defeat  Pope 
at  Cedar  Run. 

After  that  he  was  never  idle,  and  soon  became  a 
terror  to  the  Yankees.  He  would  make  a  sudden 
raid,  capture  a  dozen  prisoners,  and  be  forty  miles 
away  before  morning.  With  his  handful  of  men  he 
did  more  damage  to  the  Union  cause  than  any  regi- 
ment in  the  Southern  army." 

"  But  he  robbed  and  murdered  unarmed  men,  and 
defenceless  women,"  said  James,  hesitatingly. 

"  He  never  did.  Some  of  our  men  may  have 
committed  such  outrages  ;  but  he  never  robbed  or 
murdered  any  one.  He  always  discountenanced 
plundering,  and  is  to-day  poorer  than  when  the  war 
began.  I  know,  for  I  have  been  with  him  ever  since 
he  has  had  a  battalion." 

"  And  how  long  has  that  been  .?  " 

"  Nearly  two  years.  The  exploit  which  won  him 
the  command  was  one  of  the  most  daring  in  history. 
Mosby  had  heard  that  General    Stoughton   and  sev- 


228  The  Young  Virgi?iia?t. 

eral  other  Yankee  officers  were  at  Fairfax  Court- 
House,  and  he  determined  to  capture  them.  The 
Union  army,  at  that  time,  occupied  the  whole  re- 
gion between  Fredericksburg  and  Alexandria,  and 
strong  bodies  of  infantry  and  cavalry  were  stationed 
in  the  vicinity  of  Fairfax  and  Centreville.  Fairfax,  in 
fact,  was  completely  surrounded  vnth.  Yankee  soldiers, 
and  it  seemed  next  to  impossible  to  even  approach  it ; 
but  Mosby  determined  to  enter  the  town,  and  carry 
off  the  Yankee  commander.  Selecting  thirty  reso- 
lute men,  he  set  out  one  dark,  rainy  night  in  Novem- 
ber, on  the  hazardous  enterprise.  Taking  the  Little 
River  turnpike,  he  turned,  after  a  while,  into  the  tim- 
ber skirting  the  Warrento^Ti  road,  to  avoid  the  Union 
cavalry.  The  night  was  very  dark,  and  it  was  raining 
hea^aly.  He  avoided  the  Yankee  pickets  by  advanc- 
ing along  the  bridle-paths  in  the  woods,  and  the  in- 
cessant patter  of  the  rain  drowned  the  tread  of  the 
horses.  A  mile  this  side  of  the  Court-House  he 
came  upon  a  body  of  the  Federals,  and  turning  to 
the  right,  entered  the  woodsy  again,  and  approached 
the  town  on  the  southern  side.  A  sleepy  vedette  was 
the  only  obstacle.  He  was  captured  without  firing  a 
shot,  and  the  troop  rode  rapidly  up  to  the  General's 
quarters. 

"General    Stoughton   was    asleep   in   one   of   the 


A  Strange  Career.  229 

houses  near  the  centre  of  the  town,  and  taking 
prisoner  the  orderly  at  his  door,  Mosby  entered  his 
bedchamber.  Shaking  him  by  the  shoulder,  he  said, 
*  Get  up.  General,  and  come  with  me  ? '  The  Gen- 
eral started  up,  and  indignant  at  Mosby's  want  of 
ceremony,  exclaimed,  — 

"  *  Do  you  know  who  I  am,  sir  ? ' 

"  '  I  reckon  I  do.  General.      Do  you  know  Mosby  ? ' 

"'Yes,'  answered  the  General,  'have  you  got  the 

rascal ? ' 

" '  No,  but  he  has  got  you ' ;  and  then  to  the  sur- 
prised officer,  Mosby  explained  that  he  was  a  pris- 
oner. He  was  soon  dressed,  mounted,  and,  with 
about  thirty  others,  led  away  a  prisoner. 

«  Retracing  his  steps  by  the  way  he  came,  Mosby, 
about  daybreak,  passed  under  the  muzzles  of  the 
Union  guns  at  Centreville,  and  in  a  few  hours  was 
safe  beyond  pursuit  with  his  captives."  * 

"  It  was  a  bold  exploit,"  said  James  ;  "  the  man 
who  did  it,  had  he  been  fighting  for  the  right,  would 
have  been  a  hero." 

•  For  most  of  the  foregoing  statements  the  writer  is  indebted 
to  John  Esten  Cook,  Esq.,  of  Virginia,  a  gentleman  of  charac- 
ter, and  well  acquainted  with  Mosby.  The  proof-sheets,  more- 
over, have  been  read  and  corrected  by  Colonel  Mosby  himself, 
so  that  the  statement  conforms  to  his  recollection  of  the  facts. 


230  The  Young  Virginian. 

"  He  is  a  hero.  He  thinks  he  is  fighting  for  the 
right;  and  so  do  I,  though  I  am  going  to  forsake 
my  colors." 

There  was  a  tone  of  regret  in  the  Captain's  words, 
as  if  his  wild  life  was  showing  him  all  its  charms,  now 
that  he  was  about  leaving  it  forever.  The  boy  noticed 
it,  and  said, — 

"  Are  you  sorry  you  made  up  your  mind  to  go 
home  with  me  ? " 

"  No,  not  sorry ;  but  at  times  I  ask  myself  if  it 's 
manly  to  desert  my  native  State  at  the  ver}^  time 
she  most  needs  help  ?  " 

"  I  do  n't  know  about  that ;  but  it  seems  to  me 
no  good  man  can  live  the  life  you  are  leading." 

"  It 's  no  worse  than  war  under  any  other  form,  — 
it  is  all  robbery  and  murder  on  a  large  scale,  and 
can  be  justified  only  when  done  in  defence  of  truth 
and  justice." 

"  I  know ;  but  won't  association  with  your  old 
comrades  lead  you  back  into  your  old  courses  ? " 

"  It  might,"  answered  the  Captain,  moodily.  "  At 
any  rate,  I  '11  go  with  you.  The  battalion  sets  out 
shortly  on  a  raid  ;  and  before  the  fight  comes  ofif, 
we'll  slip  away  at  night,  and  go  to  the  Union 
lines." 

"  But  is   Mosby  going  on   a  raid  with   this  small 


A   Strange  Career.  231 

number  of  men  ?      There 's    not   a   hundred   in    the 
whole  encampment." 

"  That 's  true  ;  but  a  hundred  will  join  us  in  the 
morning,  and  runners  are  out  who  will  bring  another 
hundred  to  the  rendezvous  by  to-morrow  night. 
Mosby  never  has  many  men  with  him  except  when 
on  an  expedition." 

"  Then  this  is  not  your  regular  camp  ?  There  are 
quarters  here  for  a  thousand." 

"  No,  this  village  was  built  by  a  Louisiana  regi- 
ment, last  winter.  We  have  no  regular  camp,  and 
our  men  are  seldom  all  together.  They  are  gener- 
ally young  farmers,  and  are  scattered  among  the  small 
farm-houses  along  the  Ridge  in  this  county.  They 
are  subjected  to  few  of  the  hardships  of  regular 
soldiers,  but  live  in  families,  sleep  in  beds,  and  sel- 
dom have  hard  tack  and  bacon  for  rations.  They 
live  on  the  fat  of  the  land,  and  never  buckle  on  their 
arms  except  at  some  call  from  Mosby.  He  will  go 
off  scouting  with  a  few  officers,  on  his  own  account, 
and  seeing  some  chance  for  a  successful  operation, 
will  send  off  couriers  for  the  men  to  meet  him  at 
a  rendezvous.  Then  they  come  in,  and  when  the 
work  is  over,  disband  again.  No  one  ever  knows 
what  is  to  be  done,  till  we  meet  at  the  place  ap- 
pointed. I  shall  not  know  what  we  are  going  about 
now,  till  we  get  to  Major  Lucy's." 


232  The  Young  Virgiftian. 

"  Major  Lucy's  !  "  exclaimed  the  boy.  "  You  won't 
go  there  ;  you  know  that  Robert  is  bent  on  killing 
you." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Captain,  "and  I  'm  not  dis- 
posed to  expose  myself  needlessly.  But  the  boy 
will,  no  doubt,  be  away.  He  knows  he  'd  not  be  safe 
at  the  mansion.  We  can't  go  off  from  here ;  it  's 
forty  miles  to  the  nearest  Union  forces." 

An  orderly  then  appeared,  announcing  that  the 
Captain  was  wanted  at  the  court-martial ;  and,  lean- 
ing on  the  arm  of  the  boy,  he  set  out  for  the  "  tent " 
of  the  Sergeant. 

The  Captain's  account  of  the  character  and  career 
of  the  celebrated  guerilla  is  a  South-side  view ;  but 
it  is  corroborated  to  me  by  two  or  three  Southern 
gentlemen  of  unimpeachable  standing,  who  could 
not  be  induced  to  misrepresent  the  truth.  It  comes, 
it  is  true,  from  his  associates  ]  but  for  a  just  view 
of  any  man  we  must  go  to  his  friends,  —  for  a  use- 
ful one  of  ourselves,  we  may  resort  to  our  enemies. 
A  friend  may  tone  down  one's  faults  and  heighten 
one's  virtues,  and  an  enemy  is  very  sure  to  reverse 
the  coloring ;  but  beneath  the  exaggerations  of  both 
it  is  easy  to  detect  the  real  likeness.  Beyond  a 
question,   a  majority  of  the   Southern   leaders  have 


A  Strange  Career.  233 

been  moved  by  the  worst  passions  and  motives  that 
ever  actuated  humanity  ;  but,  among  so  many,  there 
must  have  been  some  honest  men,  and  this,  now 
that  the  war  is  over,  the  most  zealous  partisan  should 
be  willing  to  acknowledge. 

The  darkest  stain  on  the  character  of  Mosby  is  his 
execution  of  four  United  States  soldiers  during  the 
campaign  of  1864  ;  but  this,  it  should  be  borne  in 
mind,  he  alleges  fo  have  been  done  in  retaliation  for 
the  hanging  of  seven  of  his  own  men,  a  short  time 
before,  by  the  Union  General  Custer.  Unprejudiced 
lookers-on,  however,  might  not  justify  us  in  condemn- 
ing him  for  even  such  an  act,  until  we  had  given 
him  a  full  opportunity  to  be  heard  in  his  own  de- 
fence. 


234  'rhe  Young  Virgmian, 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

THE     COURT-MARTIAL. 

AT  the  tent  of  the  Sergeant  about  a  dozen  of  the 
guerillas  were  gathering  to  decide  on  the  fate  of 
a  fellow-being.  They  were  rude  men  in  bushy  beards, 
slouched  hats,  and  the  motley  homespun,  which,  time 
out  of  mind,  has  been  the  fashion  in  that  region  ;  but 
as,  one  by  one,  they  entered  the  low  doorway  and 
took  their  places  around  the  little  table  which  occu- 
pied the  centre  of  the  room,  they  gave  the  guide  a 
free  word  or  a  friendly  nod,  which  told  very  plainly 
that  only  the  most  direct  and  positive  evidence  could 
induce  them  to  find  a  verdict  against  him.  He  lay 
on  the  ground,  his  head  bolstered  on  a  pile  of  blan- 
kets, and  jMosby  sat  near  on  a  camp-stool,  looking 
on,  but  apparently  intending  to  take  no  part  in  t-he 
proceedings. 

The  "  court  "  was  organized  in  the  usual  way ;  and 
shortly  after  the  entrance  of  James  and  the  Captain, 
the  Judge  Advocate  —  a  stout,  burly,  red-faced  man, 
whom  the  others  addressed  as  Major  —  began  the 
examination  of  the  witnesses. 


The  Court- Martial.  235 

Three  or  four  of  the  rangers,  wlio  had  seen  the 
events  at  the  meeting-house,  were  at  first  separately 
examined  ;  and  then  a  dozen,  present  when  the  guide 
was  captured,  were  admitted  to  the  room  together. 
This  struck  the  Captain  as  unusual,  and  as  a  proceed- 
ing which  would  work  favorably  for  the  prisoner  ;  for 
the  kindly  feeling  of  any  one  of  the  number  would  be 
likely  to  affect  the  others,  and  influence  the  character 
of  their  testimony. 

The  first  witnesses  testified  to  seeing  .the  black- 
smith ride  away  from  the  old  meeting-house,  and  to 
a  horseman  being  with  him ;  but  who  the  horseman 
was,  how  he  looked,  or  even  the  color  of  his  clothing, 
they  were  unable  to  distinguish  in  the  dim  light  and 
the  general  confusion. 

Of  those  who  were  at  the  bridge,  the  Sergeant  was 
the  first  to  be  examined.  "  Tell  what  ye  know  of  the 
whole,  Sergeant,"  said  the  Judge  Advocate,  as  the 
ranger  took  a  seat  near  the  little  group  of  officers. 
"  Don't  stop  for  questions." 

"Wall,  Major,"  answered  the  Sergeant,  "I  don't 
know  much,  no  how,  and  I  haint  no  way  in  tellin' 
what  I  does  know ;  howsomever,  I  '11  do  the  best  I 
kin.  Ye  see,  the  Cap'n  he  druv  Jake  away  ter  the 
blacksmith's,  case  it  'peared  as  how  as  he  was  a  be- 
trayin'  a  old  man  thet  had  tuck  him,  a  chunk  uv  a 


236  The  Young  Virginian. 

boy,  brung  him  up,  and  been  a  father  ter  him,  — 
and  bein's  the  Cap'n  's  a  soul  about  him,  he  could 
n't  stand  thet,  no  how  ;  as  nary  other  decent  man 
could.  Wall,  Jake  put  inter  the  woods,  and  I  seed 
•him  strike  a  stret  line  for  camp.  Arter  that  I  nuver 
sot  eyes  on  him  till  I  holped  him  from  under  his  dead 
nag  on  the  mounting." 

"  Well,  what  did  you  see  of  him  thar  ?  Who  was 
with  him?" 

"  No  one,  'cept  old  Holley ;  and  he  war  a  run- 
nin'  away,  —  a-leavin'  Jake  ter  die  loike  a  dog." 

"  But  before  that,  —  what  did  you  see  of  them  ?  " 

"Nary  thing.  Two  men  wus  across  the  bridge, 
and  one  on  'em  wus  a-tearin'  up  the  planks,  —  but 
thet  wur  the  blacksmith." 

"  You  saw  old  Holley  running  away  ;  did  n't  Jake 
try  to  go  with  him  ? " 

"  No.  He  did  n't  lift  a  leg  ter  it ;  I  yered  him 
tell  the  blacksmith  he  would  n't ;  and  when  the  old 
man  urged  him  to  go,  Jake  laughed,  and  telled  him 
ter  clar  out.  Ye  see,  he  know'd  he  war  among 
friends,  and  had  no  'casion  fur  runnin'." 

A  suppressed  laugh  went  round  the  room  when 
this  testimony  was  given  ;  but  in  a  moment  the  court 
resumed  its  wonted  gravity,  and  the  witness  went 
on.    "  Ye  see.  Major,  I  haint  no  loryer,  no  more  'n 


The  Court-Martial.  237 

ye  is  ;  but  I  kin  make  all  this  out,  jest  as  clar  as 
a  barr'l  uv  apple-jack  in  the  eend  uv  winter.  Jake, 
ye  knows,  wus  dniv  away  by  the  Cap'n,  and  I  seed 
him,  as  I  say,  tuck  a  stret  line  for  the  mounting. 
Wall,  he  rid  alang  sort  o'  easy  loike,  and  war  n't  fur 
ahead  o'  us,  when  he  come  onter  the  bridle-way  g\vine 
up  ter  the  camp.  'T  war  natural  he'd  tuck  the  path 
up,  instead  in  gwine  ten  mile  round  by  the  road  ; 
and  so,  when  the  blacksmith  turned  in  thar,  they 
come  onter  one  another.  Jake  know'd  the  black- 
smith, and  sot  high  on  him  ;  and  the  old  feller  has 
a  tongue  loike  a  Methodist  parson,  so  he  coaxed 
Jake  ter  ride  along  a  piece  with  him.  He  done  it, 
and  thet  's  how  he  kim  ter  be  with  the  blacksmith." 

Even  Mosby  and  the  Judge  Advocate  joined  in  the 
laugh  which  followed  this  singular  bit  of  special  plead- 
ing, and  the  latter  said:  "Why,  then,  didn't  you  let 
Jake  go,  and  shoot  the  blacksmith  ? " 

"  Wall ;  't  war  n't  my  fault  thet  we  did  n't.  The 
men  fired  afore  I  know'd  it." 

"  But  why  did  n't  you  shoot  the  blacksmith  ? " 
"  We  had  orders  ter  bring  him  in  alive." 
"  That 's  true,"  said  Mosby,  laughing.     "  I  gave  the 
order.  Major ;  and  you  see,  the  Sergeant  carried  it  out 
to  the  letter.     As  soon  as  he  could  he  stopped  the 
firing." 


238  TJie  Young  Virginian. 

Two  other  witnesses  were  then  examined,  and  they 
testified  very  much  in  the  manner  of  the  Sergeant. 
When  the  last  had  concluded,  the  prosecuting  officer 
turned  to  Mosby,  and  said  :  "  Gunnel,  it 's  no  use, 
we  can't  get  enough  out  of  these  men  to  hang  a  scare- 
crow. I  've  no  doubt  Jake  got  the  blacksmith  away, 
but  it  can't  be  proved  ;  and  evidently  the  troop  want 
to  let  him  off.  If  you  don't  object,  I  '11  drop  the 
proceedings." 

"  Do  as  you  please.  I  shall  not  interfere,"  said 
Mosby. 

With  this  the  Advocate  turned  to  the  guide,  saying  : 
"Jake,  you  done  it,  —  we  know  you  done  it;  but  we 
reckon  you  meant  no  wrong  to  the  country  \  so  we  let 
you  off  without  going  on  with  the  trial ;  but,  another 
time,  be  sure  you  don't  help  so  big  a  traitor  as  old 
Holley."    - 

"  I  thanks  ye.  Major,  I  '11  be  sure  o'  thet,"  said  the 
guide,  "for  I  reckons  thar  haint  nary  nother  quite  so 
big  as  he  in  all  Virginny.  The  old  man  allers  went 
the  whole  figger ;  and  this  ar'  a  life-and-death  busi- 
ness, —  so  ye  sees  he 's  in  dead  airnest." 

With  a  few  more  friendly  words  the  members  of  the 
court  passed  out  of  the  tent,  and  the  guide  was  left 
alone  with  the  white  boy  and  the  two  officers.  Rais- 
ing himself  on  his  elbow,  he  said  to  Mosby  :  "  Cunnell, 


The  Cotirt-Martial.  239 

I  sees  yer  hand  in  this,  —  I  seed  it  all  along  in  the 
way  the  thing  was  managed.  I  owes  my  life  ter  ye, 
and  I  haint  ungrateful.  I  '11  guv  it  fur  ye  onyway  or 
aryhow  that'll  show  ye  I  ar'  a  white  man." 

The  guerilla  rested  his  head  on  his  hand  for  a 
moment,  then  looked  up  and  said :  "  No,  Jake ;  I 
trusted  you,  and  you've  betrayed  me.  I  can't  trust 
you  again.     You  must  leave  the  troop." 

The  guide's  voice  trembled  a  little  as  he  replied : 
"  Ye  hin  trust  me,  Cunnell.  I  allers  loiked  ye,  and 
this  makes  me  love  ye  as  ef  ye  wus  my  mother." 

Again  the  guerilla  rested  his  head  on  his  hand  for 
a  moment.  Then  he  said  again  :  "  No,  Jake  ;  it  can't 
be.  I  never  trusted  man  or  woman  twice.  You  must 
go.  The  troop  moves  to-night.  Where  shall  I  send 
you?" 

The  guide  drew  a  long  breath  before  he  answered  : 
"  Anywhar,  Gunnel.  Thar  's  a  gal  up  ter  Snicker's  as 
I  reckon  '11  nuss  me  till  I  kin  git  round  ag'in.  Then 
I  '11  set  out  ter  find  old  Miles,  —  that  is,  if  ye  've  no 
'jection." 

"  Where  is  he  ? "  asked  Mosby,  hastily. 

"  Safe  in  the  Union  lines  by  this  time,  I  reckon." 

"  Then  you  '11  join  the  Yankees  after  all,"  said  the 
guerilla. 

"  No,  Gunnel,"  answered  Jake ;  "  but  ef  I  car  n't 


240  The  Young  Vij-ginian. 

fight  with  ye,  I  '11  let  old  Virginny  shirk  fur  her- 
self." 

An  hour  later  the  guide,  laid  on  a  pile  of  blankets 
in  the  bottom  of  the  blacksmith's  wagon,  was  driv- 
en off,  under  escort  of  one  of  the  rangers,  up  the 
road  leading  along  the  east  of  the  Ridge.  About  an 
hour  before  sunset  this  vehicle,  slowly  climbing  the 
mountain-road,  came  in  sight  of  the  party  of  Union 
troops  which,  hidden  in  the  woods  by  the  wayside, 
were  awaiting  the  darkness  that  should  cover  their 
movements. 

"  It  is  my  wagon,  and  right  from  Mosby's  camp," 
said  the  blacksmith,  springing  upon  the  nearest  horse, 
and  galloping  into  the  highway  in  front  of  the  vehicle. 
A  dozen  cavalrj^men  followed;  but  before  they  reached 
the  road,  the  blacksmith,  drawing  a  pistol  from  his 
holster,  had  halted  the  startled   trooper. 

Saying,  "  I  surrender,"  the  man  laid  down  his  car- 
bine, and  the  loyalist  rode  up  to  the  wagon.  "  What, 
Jake !  Is  it  you  ? "  he  cried,  as  he  caught  sight  of 
the  half-sleeping  guide  on  the  floor  of  the  vehicle. 

"  Bless  my  eyes  !  Is  it  ye^  Boss  ? "  shouted  Jake, 
raising  himself  on  his  elbow.  "  Has  ye  dropped  from 
the  clouds,  or  whar  has  ye  come  from  ? " 

Mutual  explanations  followed  ;  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments the  blacksmith  understood  the  cause  of  the 
guide's  sudden  appearance. 


TJie  Coiirt- Martial.  241 

"  Is  Mosby  still  on  the  mountain  ? "  asked  the 
Major,  who  had  ridden  up  to  the  wagon. 

"  I  carn't  tell  ye,  sir,"  answered  the  guide,  glan- 
cing at  the  other's  uniform.  "  Till  three  hours  back 
I  served  under  him." 

"  But  you  don't  now ;  and  these  are  our  friends, 
Jake,"  said  the  blacksmith. 

"l?r  friends,  ye  mean.  Boss,  not  mine.  I  'd  die 
sooner 'n  I  'd  tell  on  Mosby  ;  and  ye  will  too,  Sam,  ef 
thar  's  a  morsel  uv  a  man  in  ye,"  said  the  guide, 
addressing  the  last  words  to  the  ranger  whow^as  still 
seated  on  the  front  of  the  wagon. 

"  But,  Jake,  if  you  tell,  you  may  save  bloodshed. 
The  Major  was  going  with  me  to  rescue  you  and 
take  Mosby.  If  he  knows  his  real  strength  and 
whereabouts,  he  may  turn  back  again,"  said  the 
blacksmith. 

"I  advise  him  not  ter  go.  I  can't  say  no  more," 
replied  the  guide,  stretching  himself  Out  again  upon 
the  floor  of  the  wagon. 

"  It  is  no  use  to  say  more,"  said  the  blacksmith, 
turning  to  the  Major.  , "  If  Jake  says  he  won't,  he 
won't.  Mosby  has  no  doubt  moved  from  his 
camp ;  if  he  had  n't,  he  would  not  have  sent  Jake 
away." 

"  My  man,"  now  said  the  Major  to  the  ranger, 
II  p 


242  The  YoMig  Virginian. 

"  tell  us  where  Mosby  is,  and  how  many  men  are 
with  him,  and  we  will  let  you  go." 

The  man  looked  around  on  the  column  of  cavalry, 
as  if  taking  their  census,  and  then  very  deliberately 
said  to  the  officer,  "  Does  ye  mean  what  ye  says  ? 
Will  ye  let  me  loose  if  I  tells  ye  ? " 

"  Yes.  You  can  go  the  moment  we  come  in  sight 
of  Mosby's  forces." 

"  But  I  mought  n't  want  ter  go  thet  way ;  the  cli- 
mate mought  be  summut  onhealthy  ter  a  man  as 
had  peached  on  the  Gunnel.  Let  me  go  along  with 
Jake  and  the  wagon." 

"  Ye  carn't  go  with  me,"  said  the  guide,  raising 
himself  upon  his  elbow,  and  giving  the  ranger  a  look 
of  intense  scorn.  "  I  'd  die  in  the  road  sooner  'n  be 
holped  by  a  man  as  is  willin'  ter  betray  his  com- 
rades." 

"  Shet  up,  Jake,"  said  the  other,  "  none  uv  yer 
preachin'  ter  rae  :  doan't  I  know  ye  holped  old  Hoi- 
ley?" 

The  guide  made  no  reply  \  and  the  Major  said, 
"  Well,  my  man,  what  do  you  say  ? " 

"  I  '11  tell  ye  what  ye  wants,  ef  ye  '11  drap  me  when 
ye  comes  within  a  mile  uv  the  Gunnel." 

"We  will  do  it." 

"  Wall  ;  he  's  left  the  mounting  two  hours  ago,  and 


TJie  Court-Martial.  243 

ag'in  this  time  ar'  more  'n  half  way  ter  Major  Lucy's. 
He  haint  eighty  men,  and  won't  hev  a  dozen  more 
'fore  ter-morrer  at  sundown," 

"  It  'r'  a  lie,  Major,  and  he  knows  it,"  cried  Jake, 
the  same  look  of  intense  scorn  on  his  features.  "He  's 
sayin'  it  only  ter  trap  ye." 

"  It  haint  a  lie,"  said  the  man,  looking  the  Union 
officer  squarely  in  the  face.  ''  Jake  owes  his  life  ter 
the  Gunnel,  and  he  reckons  one  good  turn  desarves 
another.  I  haint  no  sich  sentiments,  —  so  I  tells  ye 
the  truth  ;  fur,  atween  us,  I  don't  keer  ter  see  the 
inside  uv  a  Yankee  prison." 

The  officer  glanced  keenly  from  one  man  to  the 
other,  then  said  to  the  blacksmith,  "What  do  you 
think,  Mr.  Holley  \  which  of  these  men  tells  the 
truth.?" 

"Jake  never  told  a  lie,  and  I  've  known  him 
since  he  could  talk.  You  had  better  turn  back,  and 
get  to  the  lines  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  And  I  've  known  this  man  since  I  was  born," 
now  said  the  slave  boy,  who  had  stood  by,  an  in- 
terested listener  to  this  conversation.  "  He  has  no 
motive  to  mislead  you.  He  knows  that  if  he  did, 
you  would  shoot  him  down  before  he  could  get  away. 
Mosby  thinks  Mr.  Holley  has  gone  back  to  his  home, 
and  has  set  out  with  a  small  party  to  take  him." 


244  '^^^^  Young  Virginiaji. 

"That  's  true,"  added  the  ranger.  "  That  darky  's 
more  sense  nor  a  million  o'  white  men." 

A  half  hour's  conversation  followed  ;  and  at  its  close 
the  Union  officer  ordered  his  troop  to  horse,  and 
started  on  the  route  leading  down  the  mountain.  At 
the  same  time  the  blacksmith,  declining  to  go  with  the 
party,  mounted  the  wagon,  and  drove  off  with  the 
guide  in  the  direction  of  the  Union  army. 

Their  progress  was  slow,  and  it  was  not  far  from 
midnight  when  the  vehicle  which  bore  the  wounded 
man  turned  into  a  narrow  path  sloping  gently  up  from 
the  highway  in  the  vicinit}^  of  Snicker's  Gap.  There, 
half  way  up  the  ridge,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  small 
opening,  stands  a  low-roofed  log-cottage  ;  and  before 
this  cottage  the  wagon  drew  up,  and  the  blacksmith, 
alighting,  rapped  long  and  loudly  at  the  doonvay. 
All  was  dark  and  silent  within ;  but  at  last  a  woman's 
voice  was  heard  at  the  window,  "  Who  ar'  ye,  and 
what  ar'  wanted?"  it  asked. 

"  It 's  me,  —  Miles  Holley,"  answered  the  black- 
smith, "and  Jake  is  with  me,  wounded." 

"  Jake  wounded  ! "  screamed  the  woman,  throwing 
up  the  sash,  andthrusting  her  head  out  into  the  dark- 
ness.    "Ar'  he  bad  hurt?" 

"No,  not  bad,  Sally,"  replied  the  wounded  man. 
"  It  '11  lay  me  up  a  month  or  so,  —  that 's  all     But 


The  Court- Martial.  245 

clap  on  yer  clo'es,  and  holp  me  inter  the  house.  The 
boss  must  be  twenty  mile  away  by  sun-up." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know.  I  yered  ye'd  slipped  the 
noose,  Mr.  Holley ;  and  I'se  right  glad  on  it,  though 
yer  politics  ar'  bad  enough  ter  ruin  the  whole  dees- 
trict." 

With  this  the  woman  disappeared,  and  soon  a  light 
shone  through  the  window.  In  a  few  moments  the 
woman  emerged  from  the  doorway,  accompanied  by 
an  older  one  bearing  .  a  torch  of  lightwood.  The 
younger  had  all  the  oiUward  characteristics  of  the 
women  of  her  class,  —  an  olive  skin,  jet  black  hair  and 
eyes,  and  a  lithe,  graceful  figure,  —  and  her  face  bore 
traces  of  recent  weeping.  As  she  approached  the 
wagon  the  guide  lifted  himself  upon  his  elbow,  and 
threw  his  disengaged  arm  about  her  neck  in  the 
manner  of  young  people  under  certain  circumstances. 
"  I'se  right  glad  to  git  to  ye,  Sally,"  he  said  ;  "  but 
what  on  yearth  ar'  the  matter  ?  Ye  looks  as  if 
thar  'd  been  another  deluge." 

"  I'se  been  a  cr^'in'  my  eyes  out  for  ye,  Jake,"  said 
the  girl,  gently  repelling  his  caresses.  "  Ye  ugly 
feller,  to  go  along  and  git  yerself  inter  sich  a  scrape, 
and  all  for  a  ole  traitor.  Ef  ye'd  been  hanged, 
't  would  have  served  ye  right  \  but  I  'd  never  ha'  for- 
given ye  —  never." 


246  The  Young  Virginian. 

"Yes,  you  would,  Sally,"  said  the  blacksmith, 
laughing ;  "  you  'd  do  the  same  thing  yourself,  if  you 
wore  trousers." 

"  That 's  so,  —  she  would,"  said  the  older  woman  j 
"  and  we  '11  hide  ye  now,  Mr.  Holley,  for  all  of  Mosby, 
or  the  old  man  inter  the  bargin." 

"  I  know  3'Ou  would,"  answered  the  blacksmith, 
evidently  affected ;  "  but  Jake  is  right :  I  must  be 
twenty  miles  away  by  sunrise.  Let  us  get  him  into 
the  house,  so  I  may  be  going." 

The  wagon  was  then  whepled  up  to  the  doorway, 
and  Jake  was  soon  borne  to  the  bed  recently  vacated 
by  the  two  women.  There  he  was  left  by  the  black- 
smith, v.ho,  mounted  on  a  fresh  horse,  given  him  by 
the  Rebel  women,  was,  an  hour  before  morning,  snugly 
hidden  in  the  house  of  a  friend  miles  away  at  the 
northward.  There  he  lay  during  the  day,  and  setting 
out  again  at  night,  soon  entered  the  Union  lines  at 
Harper's  Ferr}% 


The  Night  Attack.  247 


CHAPTER    XX. 

THE     NIGHT      ATTACK. 

DID  you  never  think  how  much  beauty  night 
and  shadow  give  to  the  world,  —  how  dreary 
it  would  be  if  it  were  all  one  waste  of  sunshine,  with 
no  clouds  to  obscure,  no  vapors  to  soften  the  cease- 
less glare  ;  with  no  night  with  its  silent  stars,  no 
twilight  with  its  gathering  shadows  ?  And  what  night 
and  shadow  are  to  the  world,  are  not  trial  and  sor- 
row to  the  soul  ?  Do  they  not  cover  it  with  beauty, 
lend  it  a  radiance  "  that  never  was  on  land  or  sea," 
—  a  radiance  that  falls  from  the  eternal  stars,  which 
shine  forever  above  the  clouds,  however  dark  the 
night,  however  thick  the  shadows  that  surround  our 
lives  ? 

Old  Katy's  life  had  been  full  of  shadow  ;  but  now, 
as  she  sat  in  the  desolate  mansion,  looking  out  into 
the  night,  she  saw  the  stars  a-shining,  —  shining  as 
they  shone  that  night  when  the  angels  sang,  "  Peace 
on  earth,  good-will  toward  men."  She  thought  of 
her  grandson  as  dead,  or,  with  the  brand  of  Cain 
upon   him,  a  wanderer  in  the  world  ;  and  yet  those 


248  The  Yozmg  Virginian. 

words  were  in  her  ears,  the  radiance  of  that  silent 
starlight  was  in  her  soul. 

Long  she  sat  there,  looking  out  into  the  night 
and  listening  to  every  sound  that  the  wind  wafted 
through  the  still  woods ;  but  at  last  she  rose, 
and,  going  out  upon  the  lawn,  bent  her  ear  low  to 
the  ground.  Sounding,  far  away,  was  a  faint  roar,  like 
the  distant  rumbling  of  a  storm  gathering  in  the 
forest.  Louder  it  grew,  until  it  came  down  on  the 
night  with  the  dull  roll  of  the  ocean  lashed  by  the 
wind.  It  was  a  troop  of  horse  guerillas,  and  they 
could  tell  of  her  grandson !  Thinking  only  of  this, 
she  rushed  out  into  the  road,  and  soon  caught  sight 
of  their  arms,  now  glittering  in  the  moonlight,  now 
hidden  by  the  trees.  Swiftly  they  came  on,  and,  al- 
most before  she  was  aware,  had  encircled  her  in  the 
highway.  "  What  is  ye  a  doin'  yere,  old  'ooman  ? " 
shouted  one.     "  A  little  more  'n  I  'd  run  ye  down." 

"  Where  am  Rgbby  "i  tell  me,  whar  am  de  chile  ? " 

"  What  child  ? "  said  the  man  who  seemed  to  be 
the  leader,  as  the  rest  came  to  a  halt. 

"My  Robby.  Major  Lucy's  Robby.  My  own 
chile,"  cried  the  old  woman,  forgetting,  in  her  anxi- 
ety, for  her  grandson,  that  all  the  world  did  not  know 
him,  and  the  errand  he  had  been  on. 

"  We  don't  know,"  answered  the  man.  "  Is  this 
Major  Lucy's  ? " 


The  Night  Attack.  249 

"  Yes,  dis  am  de  Major's.  Oh  !  whar  am  Robby  ? 
Can't  nobody  tell?" 

"  Nobody  here.  Go  back  to  the  house,  Aunty,  and 
keep  quiet.  Perhaps  the  Colonel  knows ;  he  '11  be 
here  before  morning." 

Old  Katy  went  back,  and  the  men  rode  silently  in 
at  the  gate,  and  deployed  on  the  lawn  in  front  of  the 
mansion.  Then  a  few  low  orders  were  given,  and 
they  scattered  among  the  trees  and  negro  cabins,  and 
soon  the  place  was  as  quiet  and  apparently  as  de- 
serted as  it  had  been  an  hour  before.  Sitting 
down  on  the  door-steps,  old  Katy  looked  out  again 
into  the  night,  and  suddenly,  as  she  looked,  a 
rocket  shot  up  into  the  air  from  the  woods  in  the 
direction  of  the  blacksmith's.  In  a  moment  it  was 
answered  by  another  from  the  rear  of  the  house, 
and  then  she  heard  the  same  far-off  roar,  like  the 
distant  rumbling  of  the  storm  or  the  heavy  roll  of 
the  ocean  when  lashed  by  the  wind.  Quickly  it 
came  on  again,  and  before  another  hour  the  head 
of  a  column  of  horsemen  emerged  from  the  trees  at 
the  west  of  the  mansion,  and  rode  rapidly  into  the 
high-road. 

"  It  'm  dem  !  It  'm  Mosby  !  "  she  cried,  springing 
to  her  feet,  and  hastening  to  the  gateway.  But  a 
bayonet  barred  her  passage. 


250  The  Yoimg  Virginian. 

"  No,  you  don't,"  said  a  sentinel,  rising  like  a  ghost 
from  among  the  bushes  bordering  the  highway.  "  Not 
another  step,  old  woman." 

"  I  only  wants  ter  see  de  Gunnel.  I  only  wants 
ter  larn  about  Robby,"  she  cried,  imploringly. 

"  Well,  you  can't  see  the  Gunnel,"  answered  the 
man.  "  You  go  back,  or  you  '11  see  stars  mighty 
sudden." 

Reluctantly  she  went  back  to  her  seat  on  the  door- 
steps, while  the  column  of  cavalry  came  out  of  the 
woods,  and,  leaping  the  fences,  gathered  round  the 
desolate  mansion.  Her  mind  was  too  intently  en- 
gaged with  one  thought  to  notice  their  number,  but  it 
was  at  least  two  hundred.  Soon  one  she  knew  rode 
slowly  up  to  the  gateway.  Heedless  of  the  sentinel's 
warning,  she  rushed  towards  him,  and  cried  out : 
"  O  Gap'n,  Gap'n  !  de  Lord  be  praised,  it  'm  you, 
and  you  haint  dead.  Whar  am  de  chile,  —  whar  am 
Robby?" 

The  horseman  halted,  and,  bending  over  his  saddle- 
bow, said  kindly  :  "  I  don't  know.  He  got  away  at 
the  blacksmith's." 

"  I  knows  \  but  he  foUered  you,  —  did  n't  you  see 
him  ag'in  at  de  ole  meetin'-house  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  but  he  got  away  again.  He  's  in  the  Union 
lines  by  this  time." 


The  Night  Attack.  251 

While  a  score  of  troopers  gathered  round  in  mute 
amazement,  the  old  negress  sank  to  her  knees,  and, 
stretching  up  her  arms  to  the  sky,  cried  out :  "  De 
Lord  be  tanked,  de  good  Lord  be  tanked.  He  'm  safe, 
and  de  Cap'n  haint  murdered  !  " 

While  she  spoke,  the  same  dull  roar  sounded  again 
far  away  at  the  west,  and  a  lithe,  slenderly  built  man, 
springing  from  his  horse,  and  bending  closely  to  the 
ground,  cried  out:  "What  is  that?  None  of  the 
troop  are  coming  from  that  direction." 

In  a  moment  he  rose,  and,  turning  to  one  of  the 
men,  said  :  "  Sergeant,  your  ears  are  good ;  tell  me 
how  many  they  are,  and  how  far  away." 

The  Sergeant  dismounted,  and,  putting  his  ear  down 
until  it  almost  touched  the  grass,  listened  long  and 
intently.  Then  he  answered  :  "  About  a  mile  away, 
Gunnel,  and  nigh  onter  two  hundred,  I  reckon." 

"  Up  with  a  blue  rocket,"  said  the  Colonel,  quickly, 
bending  again  to  the  ground,  and  listening. 

The  rocket  soon  rose  with  a  rushing  sound,  and 
exploding  high  overhead,  scattered  into  a  shower  of 
little  stars,  which  floated  awhile  in  the  air,  and  then 
went  out  in  the  darkness.  Suddenly  there  was  a 
pause  in  the  rumbling  noise,  and  then  an  answering 
rocket  rose  in  the  distance,  and,  scattering  like  the 
first,  it  too  went  out  in  the  darkness. 


252  The  Young  Virginian. 

"  Strange,  strange,"  said  the  Colonel,  leaping  again 
upon  his  horse.  "  It  is  the  signal  \  but  they  can't  be 
our  men,  —  they  are  too  many.  A  dozen  of  you  tear 
down  the  fence,  to  give  play  for  the  horses ;  the  rest 
into  line  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees.  We  must  see 
them  before  they  see  us." 

These  orders  were  promptly  executed,  and,  mean- 
while, the  sounds  rose  again  on  the  air,  and  came 
rapidly  nearer.  James,  who  had  ridden  to  the  ren- 
dezvous by  the  side  of  the  Captain,  had  then,  dis- 
mounted, and  was  standing  in  conversation  with  the 
old  negress,  when  the  trooper  said  to  him  :  "  My  boy, 
there  is  likely  to  be  a  brush  ;  lead  your  horse  to  the 
rear,  and  then  go  into  the  house  with  Aunty ;  and 
mind,  if  there 's  any  firing;  don't  come  near  the  win- 
dows." 

The  boy  obeyed,  and  soon  joined  old  Katy  in  the 
parlor  of  the  mansion.  Posting  themselves  so  as  to 
command  a  view  of  the  road  by  which  the  sounds 
were  approaching,  they  breathlessly  awaited  the  ar- 
rival of  the  strange  horsemen,  -^  the  boy  with  the  un- 
quiet feeling  with  which  a  spectator  looks  forward  to 
a  deadly  collision ;  the  woman  with  that  vague  pre- 
sentiment which  so  often  giv'es  warning  of  some 
coming  evil. 

They  were  not  long  in  waiting.     A  half  hour  had 


The  Night  Attack,  253 

not  passed  when  a  column  of  blue-coats  rode  out  of 
the  wood  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  and  came  rapidly- 
forward,  their  arms  gleaming  in  the  moonlight. 
"  They  are  Yankees,"  said  Mosby,  riding  along  the 
front  of  his  line.  "  Give  them  a  volley  at  a  hundred 
yards,  and  then  upon  them  with  the  sabre." 

Quietly  the  men  unslung  their  carbines ;  a  breathless 
moment  followed,  then  the  word  "  Fire  "  rung  out  on 
the  air,  and,  before  they  were  aware  of  the  presence 
of  an  enemy,  a  storm  of  bullets  tore  through  the  ad- 
vancing column,  sending  a  score  to  the  ground,  and 
scattering  the  rest  in  momentary  confusion.  But  the 
confusion  was  only  momentary.  At  the  quick  voice 
of  their  leader  they  rallied,  and,  making  a  stand  in 
the  edge  of  the  woods,  sent  back  a  volley  which  laid 
many  a  gray  warrior  at  rest  forever. 

But  the  Rebels  were  two  to  their  one ;  and,  unmind- 
ful of  the  leaden  storm,  they  were  now  pressing  on 
with  uplifted  sabres  to  mow  down  the  little  band  of 
blue-coats.  Bravely  they  held  their  ground,  and,  for 
a  few  moments,  the  conflict  was  terrible  ;  but  flesh  and 
blood  could  not  long  withstand  such  a  hurricane.  One 
by  one  they  went  down,  until  thirty  were  stretched  on 
the  green  grass  or  the  stony  highway,  dead  or  dying  ; 
and  then  the  rest  turned  and  galloped  away,  some 
along  the  road,  others  among  the  thick  underbrush 
which  skuted  the  forest  behind  them. 


254  TJie  Yomig  Virginian. 

At  the  very  beginning  of  the  fray,  James,  from  his 
stand  at  the  window  of  the  mansion,  had  singled  out 
one  of  the  combatants  with  whose  form  he  was  fa- 
raihar.  He  was  a  mere  stripling,  but,  mounted  on  a 
powerful,  gray  horse,  he  fought  as  if  possessed  with 
the  spirit  of  a  demon.  The  Union  volley  was  just 
discharged,  and  the  Rebel  column  was  pressing  on 
in  its  resistless  charge,  when  he  spurred  his  horse 
from  the  ranks,  and  straight  at  a  little  knot  of 
rangers,  among  whom  was  the  Captain.  Straight  at 
him  he  rode,  and  their  swords  crossed  before  the 
trooper  knew  with  whom  he  was  confronted.  But  for 
only  a  moment  was  he  in  ignorance ;  for,  as  the  other 
dealt  at  him  a  tremendous  blow,  he  cried  out,  "  I 
have  you  now.     Now  you  shall  not  escape  me." 

A  film  gathered  before  the  trooper's  eyes,  and 
weakly  parrying  the  blow,  he  cried  to  the  men 
around,  "  Disarm  him,  —  unhorse  him  ;  but  do  not 
hurt  him,  on  your  lives." 

In  an  instant  a  dozen  rangers  were  upon  the  sin- 
gle horseman,  and  with  one  sweep  of  the  Sergeant's 
sword,  his  arm  and  his  sabre  were  both  gone  from 
him  forever.  He  uttered  a  yell,  half  of  pain,  half  of 
rage,  and  his  head  sank  almost  to  his  saddle-bow. 
The  rangers  thought  it  the  sign  of  surrender,  for 
their  uplifted  weapons  fell  harmless ;   but  the  youth 


The  Night  Attack.  255 

spurred  his  horse  forward,  and  with  his  left  hand 
grasped  the  pistol  in  his  holster.  In  a  second  more 
its  two  balls  were  buried,  one  in  the  Captain's 
breast,  the  other  in  "the  neck  of  his  horse,  and 
horse  and  rider  went  to  the  earth,  the  man  under 
the  dying  animal.  A  dozen  rangers  sprang  to  the 
ground  to  disentangle  the  wounded  man,  and  as 
many  more  encircled  the  infuriated  stripling.  As 
James  saw  this  from  the  window,  he  rushed  out  upon 
the  lawn,  crying  :  "  It  is  Robert.  He  has  killed  the 
Captain."  And  the  old  negress  followed.  The  boy 
went  straight  to  his  wounded  friend,  the  negress  to 
her  insane  grandson. 

The  Captain  was  stretched  upon  the  ground,  and 
one  of  the  rangers  was  supporting  his  head,  another 
t}dng  a  ligature  -about  his  side,  from  which  the  blood 
was  running  in  a  rivulet.  His  eyes  were  open,  and 
he  was  speaking.  "Tell  them  not  to  hurt  the  boy," 
he  said,  "  not  to  hurt  him,  if  they  love  me." 

James  knelt  by  his  side,  took  his  hand  in  his, 
and  said,  "  O,  I  hope  you  're  not  much  hurt,  —  not 
much  hurt." 

"  O  yes,  my  boy,  it 's  all  over  with  me,  now,  —  all 
over  with  me  —  here,''  he  gasped.  Then,  turning  his 
face  to  the  man  who  was  holding  his  head,  and 
down  whose   bronzed   cheeks   the   tears  were    trick- 


256  The  Young  Virginian. 

ling,  he  added  :  "  This  is  the  boy,  Colonel.  You  ']! 
see  he  gets  safely  home  to  his  mother  ? " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  will,"  answered  the  man, — who  was 
Mosby.     "  Can  I  do  anything  more  for  you  ? " 

The  dying  man  shook  his  head,  and  said  nothing. 
His  eyes  were  open,  but  they  seemed  fixed  on  some- 
thing in  the  distance  ;  and  when  he  spoke  again,  his 
words  were  slower,  weaker.  "  Come  nearer,  boy," 
he  said,  after  a  while.  "  Nearer."  The  boy  bent 
down  closely,  and  wiped  away  the  cold  sweat  which 
was  already  gathering  on  the  dying  man's  forehead. 

"  God  bless  you,  boy,"  he  said,  pressing  the  boy's 
face  to  his.  In  a  moment  more  he  added  :  "  It  's 
growing  dark,  —  dark,  —  but  now  —  it  brightens." 
Soon,  but  only  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  he  spoke 
again.  "  It  is  bright  now,  boy,  —  very  bright,"  he 
said,  "  and  she  is  here  !  "  Then  suddenly  stretching 
out  his  arms,  with  a  louder  voice,  he  cried  :  "  Yes, 
I  4n  coming,  —  just  as  I  am,  —  I  'm  coming  !  " 
Then  his  head  fell  back,  his  arms  dropped  to  his 
side,  and  he  was  over  the  narrow  way  that  divides 
this  world  from  that  beyond  the  silent  river. 

Meanwhile,  another  immortal  soul  was  groping  its 
way  along  the  dark  valley.  A  pure  spirit  was  bend- 
ing above  it,  wildly  praying  the  good  Father  to  take 


The  Night  Attack.  257 

his  lost  child  again  to  his  bosom  ;  but  the  words  fell 
unheeded  on  the  ear  of  the  dying  j  and  when  the 
moonlight  faded  out  of  his  eyes,  it  was  not  the  gentle 
breeze,  it  was  the  midnight  storm  that  was  gathered 
on  his  features. 


258  The  Young  Virginian. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

CONCLUSION. 

ABOUT  a  month  after  the  events  narrated  in  the 
last  chapter,  the  boy,  whose  adventures  among 
the  Rebels  this  little  book  has  recorded,  was  seated 
by  a  window  in  the  room  which  he  saw  in  his  dream 
that  night  when  he  lay  in  the  old  meeting-house  at  the 
cross-roads.  It  was  late  at  night,  a  candle  was  burn- 
ing dimly  on  the  centre-table,  and  a  woman,  not  old 
nor  yet  young,  sat  by  it,  reading.  Another  woman  sat 
near,  listening.  Her  body  was  bent,  and  her  face  was 
black ;  but  her  hair  was  of  a  snowy  whiteness,  — 
blanched,  it  may  be,  in  a  single  night,  by  some  great 
sorrow.  The  younger  woman  was  reading  the  words 
of  the  disciple  whom  Jesus  loved,  —  the  disciple 
whose  only  sermon  in  his  old  age,  when  for  nearly  a 
hundred  years  he  had  tasted  the  love  of  God,  was, 
"  Little  Children,  love  one  another." 
The  younger  woman  read  :  "  I  hear  a  voice  from 
heaven  saying  unto  me,  '  Write.  Blessed  are  the  dead 
who  die  in  the  Lord  from  henceforth.  Yea,  saith  the 
Spirit,  they  rest  from  their  labors,  and  their  wcfrks  do 
follow  them.'  " 


Conclusion.  259 

The  younger  woman  read  this  ;  but  the  words  were 
scarcely  uttered  when  the  older  one  sprang  to  her 
feet,  staggered  a  step  or  two  forward,  then  sunk  to  the 
floor,  and,  throwing  up  her  arms,  cried  out,  "  Even  so, 
Lord  Jesus,  come  !     Come  quickly  !  " 

The  boy  and  his  mother  sprang  to  their  feet,  and 
rushed  to  the  fallen  woman ;  but,  before  they  reached 
her,  the  candle,  burning  low  in  its  socket,  went  out,  — 
went  out  on  the  earth,  but  only  to  be  lit  again  in  a 
better  world,  where  it  will  bum  forever. 

And  here  ends  all  that  I  can  tell  you,  of  my 
own  knowledge,  in  regard  to  the  persons  who  have 
figured  in  this  short  history.  The  war  is  over  ;  and 
though  the  hot  passions  it  aroused  are  yet  not  alto- 
gether cooled,  let  us  hope  that  the  weapons  of  death 
it  called  forth  are  thoroughly  beaten  into  ploughshares 
and  pruning-hooks. 

The  end  of  the  war  allowed  Jake  and  Mr.  Holley 
to  return  to  Virginia.  Arrived  there,  the  first  thing 
that  Jake  did  was  to  build  for  his  employer  a  snug 
cabin  on  the  ruins  of  the  old  mansion ;  the  next,  to 
find  the  rifle-barrel  he  had  lost  on  the  mountain,  and 
to  fashion  it  into  a  huge  horse-shoe,  which  he  nailed 
over  the  door  of  the  blacksmith-shop,  in  token  of 
good-will  to  all  comers.     This  I  have  learned  from  a 


26o  The  Young  Virginian. 

friend  who,  late  in  the  autumn  of  1865,  visited  on 
horseback  the  battle-fields  of  the  Old  Dominion.  I 
had  previously  related  to  him  the  facts  which  I  have 
woven  into  this  little  story,  and  curiosity  led  him  to 
ride  over  the  ground  that  witnessed  the  stirring  events 
I  have  so  feebly  described.  There,  oddly  enough,  he 
met  Jake  and  the  blacksmith,  and  what  he  saw  and 
heard,  as  faithfully  as  I  can,  I  will  tell  you. 

It  was  not  far  from  noon  on  a  pleasant  day  in  Sep- 
tember, when  he  came  in  sight  of  the  triangular  piece 
of  ground  on  which  had  stood  the  blacksmith's  house 
and  outbuildings.  Smoke  was  issuing  from  the  chim- 
ney of  the  shop,  and  a  man  was  at  work  within,  and 
singing  merrily,  as  with  a  ponderous  sledge  he  ham- 
mered out  the  horse-shoes.  Over  the  door  swung  a 
sign,  which,  in  black  letters  on  a  white  ground,  said 
to  the  passer-by  : 

JACOB  YEARDON ; 

Blacksmith, 
AND  Veterinary  Surgeon. 


Love  your  Enemies, 
Live  Peaceably  with  all  Men. 


Amused  at  this  odd  blending  of  business  and  re- 
ligion, the  traveller  reined  up  his  horse  and  said  to 


Conclusion.  261 

the  man  within,  "Then  Mr.  Holley  does  not  live 
here  now?" 

The  man  paused  in  his  work,  and  looking  up, 
answered,  "  Live  here  ?  Well,  he  do  ;  and  I  reckon 
he'll  never  live  no  whar  else,  now -that  ole  Virginny 's 
got  back  inter  the  Union." 

The  traveller  then  explained  who  he  was,  and  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  meet  Mr.  Holley;  and  the  man, 
rolling  down  his  sleeves,  and  putting  on  his  hat, 
promptly  replied,  "  Sartin,  stranger,  I  '11  tuck  ye  ter 
the  house.  The  old  man  '11  be  glad  ter  see  ye.  He 
allers  had  a  weakness  for  ye  Yankees ;  and  I  'm 
durned  ef  I  has  n't  sort  o'  tuck  ter  ye  myself,  sense  ye 
whaled  us  so  handsomely." 

The  traveller  laughed,  and  replied  good-humoredly, 
"  I  've  '  tuck  ter  ye,' —  your  name  is  Jake  !  " 

The  man  started  in  surprise,  and  with  a  look  half 
serious,  half  comic,  answered  :  "No  it  tain't.  That's 
what  it  used  ter  -was,  in  my  fighting  days,  when  I  war 
a  young  man ;  but  now  the  war 's  over,  I'^  married, 
and  folks  call  me  Jacob, — Jacob  Yeardon,  black- 
smith and  veteran  surgeon." 

"  And  your  rules  of  life  are,  *  Love  your  enemies  : 
live  peaceably  with  all  men  ? '  "  said  the  traveller, 
again  laughing. 

"  So    the    sign  says,  strangi;r ;    but  that 's  the  old 


262  The  Young  Virginian. 

man's  doin's.  He  meant  ter  guv  every  one  far 
warnin'  that  ef  they  smote  him  on  one  cheek  he'd 
turn  the  tother.  That's  the  doctrine;  but  I  reckon 
it 's  hard  ter  Uve  it,  'cept  you  's  as  nigh  ter  heaven  as 
old  Miles  and  Ma'am  Holley." 

The  traveller  then  dismounted,  and  hitching  his 
horse  to  a  post  near  the  smithy,  walked  on  with  Jake 
toward  the  dwelling.  It  was  a  low-roofed  cabin, 
built  of  rough  logs  to  which  the  bark  still  was  clinging, 
and  it  was  divided  by  a  broad  passage-way  into  two 
tenements.  At  the  door  of  the  nearer  one  they  were 
met  by  a  tidily-dressed  young  woman,  with  dark  hair 
and  eyes,  and  a  face  more  cheerful  than  the  brightest 
day  of  summer.  She  made  the  traveller  a  low  cour- 
tesy, and,  turning  to  him,  Jake  said,  "  Stranger,  this 
ar'  my  wife ;  as  ye  knows  me,  ye  orter  know 
Sally." 

The  traveller  held  out  his  hand,  saying  that  he  had 
heard  of  her,  and  was  glad  to  make  her  acquaintance ; 
and  she  led  the  way  into  the  parlor  of  the  rude  dwell- 
ing. The  room  had  a  bare  floor,  and  was  furnished 
with  only  a  few  cheap  chairs  and  a  pine  table,  on 
which  were  piled  a  number  of  books  and  some  news- 
papers. A  one-armed  man,  with  a  furrowed  face,  and 
long  gray  hair,  sat  at  the  table  reading ;  and  as  they 
entered  Jake  said  to  him,  "  Yere  ar'  a  Yankee,  Boss, 


Conclusion.  263 

as  has  come  half  way  round  the  world  ter  see  ye,  and 
go  over  the  ground  in  the  Wilderness." 

The  blacksmith  rose  and  greeted  the  stranger  cour- 
teously, and,  sitting  down,  the  two  were  soon  well 
acquainted.  After  dinner  they  walked  out  upon  the 
lawn,  and  under  the  shade  of  a  great  elm  went  over 
the  war  together.  The  blacksmith  was  much  broken, 
but  his  wife  was  left  to  him,  and  he  had  learned  from 
the  blessed  Book  which  tells  us  that  the  dead  are 
"  not  lost,  but  gone  before,"  to  bear  with  resignation 
the  parting  from  his  children.  To  Jake  he  had  given 
all  he  had  except  the  few  acres  which  held  the  ruins 
of  his  homestead,  and,  consoled  by  his  devoted  at- 
tachment, he  was  patiently  waiting  the  summons 
which  should  call  him  to  join  the  great  army  of  the 
immortals. 

The  traveller  stayed  with  him  over  night,  and  on 
the  following  day  they  went  over  the  battle-ground 
together.  They  rode  down  the  narrow  road  by  which 
the  rangers  had  come  when  they  burned  the  black- 
smith's dwelling,  and  halted  when  they  came  to  the 
old  shanty  in  the  Wilderness.  On  the  cleared  plot 
before  its  door  Bursley  and  his  wife  were  at  work, 
and  accosting  them,  the  blacksmith  said,  "  Well,  John, 
how  do  you  get  on  'i  how  is  the  prospect  for  the 
winter  ? " 


264  •        TJic  Young  Virginian. 

"  Pore,  Boss,  mighty  pore,"  answered  the  man. 
"  The  crop  has  been  bad,  very  bad,  and  things  never 
luck'd  wuss,  —  never,  sense  I  come  inter  this  wurld  uv 
trouble." 

Now  this,  to  those  who  know  how  to  Uve,  is  a  good 
sort  of  world,  —  probably  as  good  as  any  in  the  uni- 
verse,—  so  Bursley's  remark  gave  the  blacksmith  an 
excellent  chance  for  moralizing  on  the  blessings  of  con- 
tentment and  starvation.  Probably  t^velve  "serious- 
minded  "  men  in  a  dozen  would  have  improved  the 
occasion,  and  have  stuffed  the  poor  white  man  with  a 
sermon  when  he  needed  only  corn-bread  and  bacon.* 
But  the  blacksmith  was  not  a  "serious-minded"  man. 
He  thought  God  could  do  his  own  preaching,  (and 
he  generally  does  do  it,  and  very  effectually,  by  afflic- 
tion,) so  he  only  said,  "  I  am  sorry.  Come  down  to 
the  smithy.  I  reckon  Jake  will  give  you  work  enough 
to  get  you  through  the  winter." 

"  I  don't  know.  Boss,"  said  the  poor  man,  a  tear 
rolling  down  his  cheek.  I'se  allers  thort  Jake  war 
sort  o'  down  on  me  ever  sense  —  ever  sense  I  turned 
my  back  on  ye  ter  the  old  meetin'-house." 

*  Lest  the  young  reader  should  misunderstand  me,  I  will  say 
that  I  have  a  high  opinion  of  sermons.  They  are  excellent 
things  in  their  way,  and  on  proper  occasions  ;  and  perhaps  it  is 
only  with  starving  men  and  women  that  they  can  be  profitably 
omitted. 


Conclusion.  265 

"  O  no  !  He  never  laid  that  up  against  you.  I 
never  blamed  you.  Come,  and  I  promise  you  shall 
be  kept  from  want  during  the  winter." 

The  "  God-bless-ye  "  which  answered  this  remark 
touched  the  heart  of  the  traveller.  It  is  such  God- 
bless-you's  that  light  a  good  man's  way  to  heaven. 

The  two  rode  on,  and  a  short  half-hour  brought 
them  to  the  scene  of  Old  Katy'*s  many  sorrows.  The 
mansion  had  been  burned  during  one  of  the  many 
conflicts  which  had  occurred  in  its  vicinity,  and  only 
a  pile  of  blackened  beams  marked  the  site  of  the 
once  stately  dwelling.  Picking  their  way  among  the 
ruins,  the  two  went  on  to  a  far  corner  of  the  court- 
yard. There  they  paused  before  a  couple  of  low 
mounds,  overgrown  with  grass,  and  guarded  by  rude 
head-boards  ;  and  the  blacksmith  said  to  his  com- 
panion, — 

"Here  they  lie,  —  the  murderer  and  the  murdered. 
Who  shall  judge  them  but  He  who  knows  all  they 
sinned  and  all  they  suffered  ? " 


266  The  Young  Virginian. 


CHAPTER    THE    LAST. 

THE   SUM    OF   THE   WHOLE. 

EVERY  one  remembers  a  certain  artist,  who,  after 
painting  a  "  neighing  steed,"  wrote  underneath 
the  picture,  "  This  is  a  horse,"  lest  it  should  be  mis- 
taken for  an  alligator.  I  am  tempted  to  imitate  his 
example,  lest  the  .young  reader,  otherwise,  may  not 
discover  my  full  purpose  in  writing  this  little  volume. 
My  object,  as  I  said  at  the  beginning,  is  not  so  much 
to  tell  a  story,  as  to  draw  a  series  of  portraits  which 
shall  depict  the  different  classes  of  Southern  society, 
—  the  "  mean  whites,"  the  "  poor  whites,"  the  "  chiv- 
alry," the  "  negroes,"  and  the  mixed  race  in  which 
the  blood  of  the  white  and  the  black  is  mingled  in 
various  proportions. 

In  so  short  a  story,  introducing  so  small  a  number 
of  people,  I  have  not  been  able  to  portray  all  the 
characteristics  of  all  the  classes  at  the  South  ;  and 
that  is  my  apology  for  adding  this  supplementary 
chapter,  which,  at  first  sight,  may  seem  like  a  fifth 
wheel  to  a'  coach,  or  like  a  piece  added  on  to  a  tail 
already  —  as  a  tale  —  long  enough  in  all  conscience. 


The  Sum  of  the   Whole.  267 

The  conscript  Bursley  and  his  wife  are  meant  to 
be  types  of  the  "  mean  whites,"  and  their  wretched 
hovel  is  intended  as  a  specimen  of  the  houses  in 
which  these  people  live  all  over  the  South.  They 
are  far  below  the  negroes  in  all  that  makes  civiliza- 
tion and  manhood,  and  do  scarcely  any  work,  — 
either  begging  their  bread  from  the  planter  or  stealing 
it  from  his  fields  and  forests.  They  can  neither  read 
nor  write,  and  are  ignorant  of  the  simplest  elements 
of  knowledge  ;  such  as  that  the  earth  is  round,  that 
five  and  five  are  ten,  and  that,  to  produce  any  result, 
use  must  be  made  of  the  appropriate  means.  About 
all  that  they  do  know  is  that  they  have  a  voice  in 
electing  men  to  ofiice  ;  though  what  those  men  do 
when  in  office,  or  how  their  action  concerns  them, 
they  have  no  idea  whatever. 

They  have,  heretofore,  sold  their  votes  to  the 
planter  for  the  wretched  privilege  of  living  in  some 
miserable  hut,  or  of  foraging  at  night  on  his  patch  of 
corn  and  potatoes  ;  and  this  is  what  has  made  them 
a  very  dangerous  class  ;  for  it  was  largely  by  their 
votes  that  the  "  chivalry "  were,  before  the  war,  en- 
abled to  rule  the  South,  and  control,  to  so  great  an  ex- 
tent, the  legislation  of  the  whole  country.  These  four 
years  of  conflict  and  carnage  have  taught  these  people 
nothing  ;  and,  if  they  have  the  power,  they  will  again 


268  The  Yoting  Virgiiiimi. 

support  the  planters.  So  we  must  look  to  it  that 
the  "chivalry"  are  not  again  eligible  for  office,  or 
again  allowed  any  voice  in  the  control  of  the  nation. 

They  are  totally  destitute  of  morals  and  religion, 
and  live  in  open  violation  of  almost  all  laws,  human 
and  divine.  Fathers  cohabit  with  daughters,  brothers 
with  sisters  ;  and  husbands  sell  or  barter  away  their 
wives,  just  as  they  would  their  jackknives  or  their 
rusty  rifles.  Many  of  them  never  heard  of  the  Bible, 
and  few  know  there  is  a  world  beyond  this,  and  that 
the  lives  we  live  here  determine  the  lives  we  shall 
enter  upon  hereafter.  On  all  this  broad  earth  there 
is  not  a  class  of  white  people  so  ignorant  and  so 
degraded  as  they  are ;  and  all  their  ignorance  and 
degradation  has  been  brought  about  by  the  "chiv- 
alry," who  have  deprived  them  of  schools,  and  kept 
them  in  mental  and  moral  darkness,  that  they  might 
make  them  the  servile  tools  and  pliant  instruments 
of  their  reckless  and  wicked  ambition. 

The  class  is  not  large,  and  it  is  well  it  is  not ;  for  if 
it  were,  the  thorough  reconstruction  and  regeneration 
of  the  South  would  be  things  which  the  youngest  of 
you  might  not  live  to  see,  so  far  av*ay  would  it  be  in 
the  very  .dim  distance.  It  is  impossible  to  estimate 
their  number  with  any  exactness,  there  being  no  suffi 
cient  data  on  which  to  found  a  reckoning;  but  the 


The  Sum  of  the   Whole.  269 

opinion  of  those  best  informed  on  the  subject,  and 
long  observation  in  all  parts  of  the  South,  have  led  me 
to  the  conclusion  that  it  cannot  exceed  a  million. 

The  class  at  the  South  next  higher  in  the  social 
scale  is  the  "poor  whites,"  and  they  comprise  the 
great  mass  of  the  Southern  people,  and,  before  the 
war,  numbered  at  least  five  millions.  They  are  of 
different  grades,  and  the  'lower  strata  are  not  much 
above  the  "  mean  whites "  in  either  mental  or  moral 
cultivation  ;  but  they  all  do  what  the  other  class  does 
not  do,  that  is,  they  work  with  their  hands  or  their 
heads,  and  so  add  something  to  the  wealth  and  com- 
fort of  the  world.  Perhaps  one  half  of  them  cannot 
read  or  write ;  but  the  fact  that  they  labor  lifts  them 
above  the  "  mean  whites,"  for  only  "  the  idle  mind  is 
the  Devil's  workshop."  The  three  principal  grades  of 
this  class  —  ascending  in  the  order  in  which  they  are 
here  named  —  I  have  endeavored  to  depict  in  the 
Sergeant,  the  Guide,  and  the  Blacksmith. 

These  people  are  the  real  hope  of  the  South,  and 
the  Union  cannot  be  fully  reconstructed  until  they  are 
educated,  made  acquainted  with  the  true  principles  of 
our  government,  and  brought  back  to  hearty  loyalty 
to  the  country.  They  must  be  given  the  political 
power  which  the  "  chivalry"  have  so  wickedly  abused, 
and   thus    be   made   the    real    South  of  the    future. 


zjo  The  Young  Vu'-ginian. 

Then,  and  not  until  then,  will  the  Union  rest  on  a 
foundation  that  cannot  be  shaken,  —  the  foundation 
on  which  the  North  has  risen  to  be  so  great  and  free, 
—  the  strong  arms  and  stout  hearts  of  its  working 
population. 

The  "poor  whites"  are  of  the  same  ancestry  as 
ourselves,  and  therefore  are  of  about  the  best  blood 
in  the  world.  A  large  majority  of  the  early  settlers 
of  both  sections  of  the  Union  were  English,  Scotch, 
and  Scotch-Irish  yeomen,  and  from  them  the  Southern 
as  well  as  the  Northern  workingman  is  descended. 
These  yeomen  brought  from  the  mother-country  the 
same  language,  the  same  customs,  and  the  same 
religion  :  but  among  the  Northern  settlers  were  very 
few  of  the  English  aristocracy,  while  among  the 
Southern  were  very  many,  and  aristocracy  of  the 
worst  sort,  —  broken-down  noblemen,  needy  adven- 
turers, and  portionless  3'ounger  sons  of  country  gen- 
tlemen. 

Tlie  Northern  settlers  established  universal  suffrage, 
and  secured  the  division  of  land  into  small  farms  by 
providing  for  the  equal  inheritance  of  property.  The 
Southern  settlers  gave  only  landowners  the  right  of 
ballot,  obtained  extensive  land-grants  from  the  crown, 
and  built  uj)  and  secured  to  their  children  large 
estates  by  e.^t  iblishing  primogeniture.     Thus,  at  the 


The  Sum  of  the   Whole.  271 

ver}'  outset,  one  section  became  a  virtual  democracy, 
which  fostered  freedom  ;  the  other,  an  oligarchy,  which 
encouraged  slavery. 

To  Ihis  discordance  in  the  original  constitution  of 
things  at  the  North  and  at  the  South  may  be  traced 
all  the  differences  which  now  exist  in  the  habits, 
customs,  and  characters  of  the  people  of  the  two 
sections.  To  this  it  is  owing  that  the  Northern 
workingman  of  to-day  is  clad  like  a  gentleman,  sends 
his  children  to  school,  reads  his  Bible,  goes  to  meet- 
ing on  Sundays,  takes  the  newspapers,  and  has  fallen 
in  love  with  freedom.  And  to  this  it  is  also  owing 
that  the  Southern  workingman  goes  in  ragged  "but- 
ternuts," never  sends  his  children  to  school,  never 
takes  the  newspapers,  does  up  his  religion  at  a  camp- 
meeting,  once  a  year  in  a  lump,  and  has  fallen  in 
love  with  slaver}-. 

But,  in  spite  of  these  differences,  the  Northern  and 
Southern  yeomen  are  essentially  alike.  Both  are 
brave  and  enterprising,  —  both  tenacious  of  their 
rights,  —  both  loyal  to  what  they  think  is  liberty,  — 
and  both  have  the  practical  wisdom  that  "trusts  in 
the  Lord,  but  keeps  its  powder  dry,"  which  is  one  of 
the  best  legacies  left  us  by  our  ancestors.  If  one  is 
now  a  marble  statue,  rounded  and  perfect  as  any 
ever  chiselled  by  a  sculptor,  and   the  other  a  rough 


2/2  The  Young  Virginian. 

block,  unhewn  and  unseemly  as  when  it  came  from 
the  everlasting  hills,  it  is  because  freedom  and  de- 
mocracy have  moulded  the  one,  slavery  and  despot- 
ism crushed  the  other. 

These,  people  being  thi^s  of  one  blood  and  one 
origin,  you  might  get  a  tolerable  idea  of  the  South- 
ern workingman  by  dressing  up  one  of  our  Northern 
farmers  in  "  butternut "  homespun  and  a  slouched 
hat ;  giving  him  a  huge  wig,  a  patriarchal  beard,  and 
a  half-pound  quid  of  tobacco,  and  then  asking  him 
to  swear  all  the  unpronounceable  oaths  in  the  lan- 
guage. But  as  he  could,  by  no  possibilit}',  sweat 
quite  so  hard  as  the  Southerner,  and  as  he  would, 
after  all,  represent  only  the  body,  and  not  the  soul, 
of  his  "  Southern  brother,"  I  will  tell  you  how  the 
latter  looks  and  lives  a  little  more  in  detail. 

His  house  is  usually  a  one-story  log-cabin,  nicely 
whitewashed,  and  chinked  with  clay.  It  has  gen- 
erally two  apartments  on  the  ground-floor,  and  one 
of  them  —  the  sitting-room  —  is  furnished  with  a  tidy 
rag  carpet,  an  old-fashioned  sideboard,  an  unpainted 
pine  table,  and  a  few  chairs  with  rustic  frames  and 
deerskin  coverings.  It  is  an  humble  dwelling,  but  it 
generally  contains  a  Bible,  a  copy  of  Watts's  Hymns, 
and  about  as  much  simple-hearted  goodness  as  is 
found  in  statelier  mansions. 


The  Sum  of  the   Whole.  273 

His  fi\rm  is  perhaps  from  one  to  t^vo  hundred 
acres,  and  not  thoroughly  cultivated  ;  for  the  South- 
ern farmer  is  not  obliged  to  work  thirteen  months 
in  the  year  to  force  a  scanty  living  from  a  sorry  patch 
of  stones  and  potatoes,  or  to  sharpen  the  noses  of  his 
sheep  to  enable  them  to  get  at  the  thin  grass  which 
grows  among  the  rocks.  He  simply  throws  the  seed 
into  the  soil,  and,  almost  without  labor,  it  springs  up 
into  an  abundant  harvest. 

The  men  of  this  class  are  generally  tall  and  well 
formed,  with  gaunt,  loose-jointed  frames,  wiry,  black 
hair,  keen,  restless  eyes,  simple,  confiding  manners, 
and  a  certain  air  of  self-possession  which  indicates 
that,  if  they  know  little  of  the  world,  they  feel  fully 
able  to  cope  with  what  little  they  do  know.  The 
women  are  comely  and  dark-eyed,  with  clear,  olive 
complexions,  full,  well-rounded  forms,  and  an  artless 
grace  and 'lovingness  that  tempts  one  to  exclaim, — 
if  he  happens  to  be  a  bachelor,  —  "What  an  ever- 
lasting pity  it  is  that  she  dips  snuff,  chews  tobacco, 
and  goes  without  shoes  and  stockings  ! " 

If  you  should  stay  a  day  or  two  at  one  of  their 
houses,  you  would  know  them  as  well  as  you  might 
know  some  other  people  in  as  many  years.  You 
would  find  the  women  industrious,  chaste,  loving,  and 
religious  ;  the  men  brave,  hardy,  energetic,  simple 
12*  a 


274  The  Young  Virginian. 

hearted,  earnest  in  their  con\ictions,  good  husbands 
and  fathers,  and,  in  short,  possessed  of  as  much  of 
the  "raw  material"  of  a  noble  manhood  as  any  people 
on  the  earth.  What  they  most  need  is  education  ; 
and  before  we  readmit  the  Southern  States  to  the 
privileges  of  the  Union,  we  should  see  to  it  that  they 
make  provision  for  giving  to  this  class  free  schools 
and  a  free  press,  which  shall  make  them  acquainted 
with  the  true  nature  of  republican  institutions.  If 
we  do  this,  they  soon  will  be  the  equals  of  the 
Northern  workingman,  and  erelong  will  make  the 
South  the  garden  of  this  continent. 

"  Captain  Thompson  "  is  a  representative  of  the 
"chivalr}^,"  and  what  of  them  his  career  does  not 
illustrate  is  told  in  the  stor}^  by  the  blacksmith  ;  so 
I  need  not  say  more  ;  and  the  fact  is,  the  less  that 
is  said  about  this  class  the  better  ;  for,  beyond  a 
doubt,  they  are  the  vilest  white  men  in  the  universe. 
I  have  never  been  on  any  other  planet,  but  have 
travelled  pretty  extensively  over  this,  and  seen  all 
varieties  of  people ;  and,  therefore,  when  I  speak  thus 
of  the  "chivalry,"  "  I  know  whereof  I  affirm."  They 
are  those  who  brought  on  the  war,  who  stan-ed  our 
prisoners  at  Salisbury  and  Andersonville,  butchered 
our  brave  boys  when  battles  were  over,  and  made 
their  bones  into  trinkets  for  their  worthless  mistresses 


The  Sum  of  the    Whole.  275 

This  is  enough  to  say  of  tliem  ;  but,  if  you  would 
know  more,  ask  the  negroes,  whom  they  have  scourged 
and  debauched  for  two  centuries,  or  the  working 
white  men,  whom  they  have  mislead,  and  trodden 
on,  and  driven  like  sheep  to  the  slaughter.  They 
can  and  will  tell  you. 

But,  thank  God,  the  "  chivalry  "  are  not  the  South. 
They  are  only  a  handful,  —  numbering,  all  told, 
scarcely  three  hundred  thousand  ;  and  yet,  before  the 
war,  a  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  of  them  owned 
three  fourths  of  the  slaves  and  landed  property  of  the 
South,  and  held  all  of  its  political  power.  But  that 
day  is  past ;  and,  if  we  do  not  w^antonly  throw  away 
the  fruit  of  our  victory,  the  reign  of  the  "  chivalry  " 
is  gone  with  it  forever. 

"  Old  Katy  "  is  a  type  of  the  better  class  of  blacks, 
and  her  kindly  nature  and  religious  devotion  are 
characteristic  of  a  very  large  portion  of  the  Southern 
negroes.  It  is  not  because  they  have  nothing  earthly 
to  cling  to,  that  they  so  love  their  "  Massa  Lord  "  and 
"  jMassa  Jesus,"  but  because  their  natures  are  more 
open  than  ours,  —  more  receptive  of  the  influences 
which  fall  from  the  upper  sky,  where  dwell  the  an- 
gels and  the  pure  and  good  of  all  ages.  I  should 
not  now  be  alive  to  tell  you  stories  but  for  the  ten- 
der  watching   of    an    old   negress   whose   portrait    I 


2/6  The  Young  Virginian. 

have  tried  to  sketch  in  old  Katy.  Her  form  now  is 
bent,  her  Hmbs  now  are  feeble,  and  on  her  head 
have  settled  the  snows  of  more  than  eighty  winters  ; 
but  from  the  Pisgah  height  where  she  lives  she 
hourly  sees  the  glories  of  the  land  that  is  promised. 
It  may  be  that  my  love  for  her  has  clouded  my  vis- 
ion, and  made  me,  these  many  years,  see  graces  in 
the  negro  character  which  the  most  of  her  race  do 
not  exhibit ;  but  I  am  not  conscious  that  it  has.  At 
any  rate,  I  have  tried  to  think  and  to  write  of  them 
truthfully. 

The  heart  of  the  negro  is  larger  than  ours,  his  love 
is  stronger.  This  makes  him  in  daily  life  cheerful, 
joyous,  and  happy ;  and  in  seasons  of  religious  in- 
terest it  lifts  his  soul  into  regions  which,  to  our  reason- 
ing race,  will,  in  this  world,  ever  be  untrodden.  At 
such  times  his  nature  is  all  aglow  with  affection,  and 
in  his  churches  an  influence  goes  forth  which  fills  the 
very  air,  and  inevitably  melts  and  softens  the  most 
abandoned  and  hardened.  Then  his  prayers  have  a 
power  which  seems  something  more  than  human, — 
which,  perhaps,  opens  the  heavenly  gates,  and  brings 
troops  of  angels  down  to  these  poorest  of  the  earth's 
children.  Then,  too,  he  will  tell  you  that  he  beholds 
visions,  sees  the  glories  of  the  better  land,  walks  it3 
golden  streets,  and  worships  in  its  dim   cathedrals. 


TJic  Siiin  of  tJie    Whole.  277 

And  who  knows  that  he  does  not  ?  Because  our  eyes 
are  closed,  are  his  unopened  ?  For  his  earthly  life  of 
want  and  sorrow  may  there  not  be  this  heavenly  com- 
pensation ? 

But  this  ecstatic  love,  w-hich  so  lifts  him  above  our 
cold  world,  disposes  the  negro  to  many  social  vices, 
and  makes  him,  in  coming  together  with  others  of  his 
class,  not  always  mindful  of  moral  obligation.  Some 
one  has  said  that  many  broad  avenues  lead.,  to  his 
heart,  while  his  brain  is  approached  by  only  a  narrow 
footpath.  This  is  true ;  but  Nature  has  compensated 
for  this  lack  of  reason  by  giving  him  extraordinary 
intuitions,  which  make  him,  though  harmless  as  the 
dove,  wise  and  subtle  as  the  serpent. 

But  with  all  his  weakness  and  ignorance,  the 
negro's  life  is  nearer  the  ideal  of  the  New  Testament 
than  our  lives.  The  great  law  of  Love  seems  en- 
graven on  his  very  nature,  —  or  he  had  not  been  a 
slave  for  two  centuries;  —  and  at  the  last  assize,  it 
may  be  that  the  Great  Judge  will  count  his  warm 
heart  of  more  worth  than  our  cold  intellects.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  we  know  that  "whom  He  loves  he 
chastens,"  and  that  "  the  light  affliction  of  this  pres- 
ent moment  works  out  an  exceeding  and  eternal 
weight  of  glory."  This  being  true,  there  must  be  a 
future  for  the  black   man,  —  a  future  in   whose   rest 


2/8  The  Young  Virginimi. 

and  peace  all  the  unrest  and  sorrow  of  this  world 
will  be  but  dimly  remembered. 

However,  all  of  the  Southern  negroes  are  not  like 
old  Katy.  Thirteen  out  of  every  hundred  of  them 
are  church  members,  while  only  nine  in  the  same 
number  of  Southern  whites  profess  religion ;  and 
this  —  though  church-membership  is  not  an  infallible 
sign  of  goodness  —  probably  indicates  the  relative 
moral  worth  of  the  two  races.  But  there  are  many 
negroes  whose  hearts  are  as  black  as  their  skins,  and 
into  whose  darkened  souls  no  ray  of  light  ever  broke 
from  Heaven  or  from  any  other  region.  They  seem 
of  a  different  race  from  those  I  have  described,  and 
the  two  have  fewer  traits  in  common  than  the  Milesian 
and  the  Yankee.  One  has  a  short  heel,  a  straight 
shin,  an  erect  form,  a  well-shaped  head,  and  a  face 
both  open  and  engaging ;  *  the  other,  a  'ong  heel,  a 
shin  like  a  harness-collar,  a  bent  body,  a  bullet  head, 
and  a  face  that  would  be  no  ornament  to  a  baboon  or 
a  gorilla. 

This  class,  however,  is  comparatively  small,  and 
will  no  doubt  melt  away  as  soon  as  emancipation 
shall  have  brought  it  into  full  competition  wdth  the 
working  whites  and  the  more  intelligent  of  its  own 
color.  But  not  so  with  the  superior  negroes.  They 
will  expand  and  grow,  while  the  others  shrivel  and  die, 


The  Sum  of  the   Whole.  279 

under  the  light  of  freedom.  The  same  impression- 
able nature  which  opens  their  souls  to  the  heavenly 
aura  will,  now  that  the  gates  of  knowledge  are  thrown 
ajar,  open  their  minds  to  the  influences  of  civilization  \ 
and,  ere  many  years,  even  their  old  masters  will  point 
to  them  as  model  citizens  and  model  Christians,  and 
wonder  if  they  are  the  same  docile  drudges  who  car- 
ried their  burdens  and  bore  so  meekly  the  stripes 
they  laid  upon  them. 

All  experience  shows  that  they  are  apt  to  learn,  and 
most  receptive  of  elevating  influences.  They  have  not 
the  aggressive  character  of  the  Anglo-Saxon,  they  will 
not  seek  to  mould  other  people  to  their  form,  or  to 
crush  them  by  their  power  ;  but  they  will  twine  round 
the  stronger  race  as  the  ixy  twines  round  the  oak, 
hiding  its  rough  coat,  and  covering  it  with  an  ever- 
green beaut)'. 

They  have,  too,  a  peculiar  power  of  resistance, 
which  will  keep  them  a  distinct  people.  No  other 
race  has  ever  come  in  contact  with  the  Anglo-Saxon 
without  being  swallowed  up  or  swept  away  by  it  as  a 
mountain  bridge  is  swept  away  by  a  freshet.  But  the 
negro  has  neither  been  swallowed  up  nor  swept  away. 
He  has  lived  by  the  side  of  the  white  man  for  two  cen- 
turies, and  yet  to-day  has  all  of  the  characteristics  he 
brought  from  his  native  jungles.     This  shows  that  he 


28o  TJie  YoiDig  Virginian. 

can  live ;  and  if  he  has  lived  in  slavey,  then  he  wil 
live  all  the  longer,  and  grow  all  the  stronger,  in  free- 
dom. 

If  you  look  again  at  the  various  traits  I  have  enu- 
merated as  belonging  to  the  negro,  you  will  see  that 
there  are  among  us  nearly  four  millions  of  people  of 
strong  religious  sensibilities,  fair  mental  endowments, 
distinct  and  marked  characteristics,  and  yet  with 
natures  peculiarly  docile,  teachable,  and  receptive 
of  civilizing  influences.  If  they  are  now  permitted  to 
live  with  the  white  race  on  terms  of  political  equality, 
is  it  difficult  to  predict  their  future  ?  Will  they  not 
make  for  themselves  a  history  which,  if  it  be  not  as 
brilliant  and  aggressive  as  our  own,  will  yet  reflect 
honor  and  glor)'  on  the  countr}-,  which  shall  atone  for 
their  long  night  of  slavery  by  a  longer  day  of  free- 
dom ? 

"Robert  Lucy"  is  a  representative  of  the  mixed 
races  which,  under  the  names  of  mulattoes,  quadroons, 
metifs,  and  octoroons,  form  an  important  part  of  the 
negro  population.  What  proportion  they  bear  to  the 
whole  cannot  be  stated  with  any  precision ;  for  there 
are  no  entirely  reliable  statistics.  General  Hunter,  it 
is  said,  found  among  the  slaves  of  St.  Helena  Island 
only  eight  of  unmixed  African  descent  in  a  total  of 
about  fifteen  hundred.     This,  however,  is  an  evident 


The  Sum  of  the    Whole.  281 

mistake,  for  not  enough  white  blood  to  adulterate 
so  large  a  mass  of  black  material  ever  came  within 
speaking  distance  of  the  entire  group  of  Sea  Islands. 
The  census  of  the  whole  South  gives  the  ratio  of  one 
class  to  the  other  as  seventeen  to  a  hundred  ;  but  this, 
doubtless,  is  another  mistake,  and  another  instance  of 
the  fallibility  of  figures.  The  most  casual  observer 
must  have  noticed  that  in  the  large  Southern  towns 
the  mixed  races  comprise  at  least  a  half  of  the 
colored  population,  and  on  the  smaller  plantations 
not  less  than  a  quarter.  Making  allowance,  then, 
for  the  larger  proportion  of  pure  negroes  on  the 
great  estates,  —  where  there  is  too  little  white  blood 
to  very  sensibly  dilute  the  darker -current,  —  the  total 
number  of  the  mixed  races  cannot  be  far  from  one 
fourth  of  the  whole,  or  one  million  in  a  population 
of  four  millions. 

Admitting  this  estimate  to  be  tolerably  correct,  we 
have  a  data  by  which  to  reckon  the  time  that  will 
be  required,  providing  the  process  of  amalgamation 
goes  on  in  freedom  as  it  has  gone  on  in  slavery, 
to  bleach  the  entire  mass  to  the  complexion  of  re- 
spectable white  citizens.  If  it  has  taken  two  hun- 
dred years  to  bring  one  quarter  of  the  whole  to  a 
hue  halfway  between  daylight  and  darkness,  it  will 
take  six  hundred  years  to  reduce  the  remainder  to  the 


282  The  Young  Virginia?L 

same  tawny  yellow,  and  eight  hundred  more  years  to 
give  them  the  florid  cuticle  of  the  Anglo-Saxon. 
Therefore,  with  the  bleaching  process  in  full  operation, 
it  will  be  the  year  of  grace  3300  befiore  all  of  the 
negroes  are  of  a  color  to  suit  the  fastidious  taste  of 
those  good  people  who  would  have  them  something 
different  from  what  the  Creator  intended. 

But  amalgamation  will  not  go  on.  Freedom  will 
cause  the  process  to  cease  altogether.  The  black  has 
not  sought  the  white,  but  the  white  the  black ;  and 
nothing  but  force  has  made  the  slave  mk  his  blood 
with  that  of  his  master.  If  any  one  doubts  this,  let 
him  call  to  mind  how  the  pure  negro  scorns  the  one 
whose  lighter  skin  betrays  a  white  ancestry.  This 
pride  of  race,  which  every  one  at  all  familiar  with 
the  South  has  noticed,  will  ever  keep  the  white 
and  black  races  apart,  and  make  the  latter  always  a 
separate  people. 

It  is  the  mixed  race  which  will  be  absorbed,  not  by 
the  white,  nor  yet  by  the  black,  but  by  the  law  which 
we  see  governing  most  of  the  hybrids  among  the  brute 
creation.  In  His  great  plan,  which  reaches  across  the 
centuries,  they  have  a  part  to  perform,  and  when  that 
part  is  performed  they  will  sink  into  the  earth,  as  a 
river  sinks  into  the  ocean.  Abundant  observation  has 
shown,  that  after  three  or  four  generations  of  breeding 


The  Sum  of  the   Whole.  283 

in-and-in,  the  mulatto  becomes  enfeebled,  and  dies 
out,  as  the  mule  dies,  stamping  his  image  on  none 
of  his  species.  It  is  only  tlie  infusion  of  fresh  white 
or  black  blood  that  keeps  the  race  alive,  and  when 
that  stream  is  diverted  by  freedom  into  its  natural 
channel,  no  hydraulic  power  known  among  men  can 
keep  the  Southern  bleachery  in  operation.  It  might 
be  well,  therefore,  to  reconcile  ourselves  at  once  to 
the  incontestible  fact  that  we  shall  have  on  this 
Continent,  for  all  coming  time,  a  nation  of  black 
Americans. 

And  it  is  not  desirable  that  the  mulatto  should  live ; 
for,  being  the  offspring,  generally,  of  the  ruling  whites 
and  the  less  moral  of  the  blacks,  he  inherits  about 
as  many  evil  qualities  as  can  be  got  into  six  feet 
of  bone  and  sinew.  He  has  the  indolence,  pride, 
treachery,  and  moral  obtuseness  of  the  master,  with 
the  senility,  craft,  cunning,  and  thieving  propensities 
of  the  slave.  The  fervid  nature  which,  in  the  negro, 
comes  to  ecstatic  dreams  and  religious  visions,  finds 
vent,  in  him,  in  grovelling  desire  and  perfect  whirl- 
winds of  insane  passion.  He  is  a  volcano,  smothered 
under  a  yellow  mould,  but  every  now  and  then  break- 
ing out  and  scorching  the  green  earth  with  a  deluge 
of  hot  ashes  and  lava.  Like  the  negro,  he  dreams 
dreams  and  sees  visions  :  but  they  are  sucli  visions  as 


284  The  Yoiiiig  Virginian. 

may  be  supposed  to  visit  the  sleepers  that  tenant  the 
lower  regions,  not  such  as  come  to  the  cooler  brains 
of  honest,  well-regulated  mortals. 

Though  of  a  weak  physical  frame,  the  mulatto  has 
all  the  energy,  fire,  and  intellect  of  his  white  ancestry; 
and  this,  and  his  decided  sympathy  with  the  negro, 
may  indicate  the  part  he  is  to  perform  in  the  great 
plan  which  is  to  have  its  evolution  in  this  New  World. 
It  may  be  that  he  is  to  lead  his  people  out  of  the 
wilderness,  and,  like  another  Joshua,  give  them  a 
name  among  the  nations.  And  perhaps  when  this 
is  done,  his  work  will  be  over  and  he  will  be 
gathered  to  his  fathers. 

It  needs  no  prophet's  vision  to  see  that  the  blind 
obstinacy  of  the  Southern  whites,  which  denies  the 
negro's  manhood,  and  would  keep  from  him  the  only 
pledge  of  his  freedom,  may  yet  rouse  a  storm,  which, 
to  this  that  has  passed,  will  be  as  the  huiTicane  to  the 
gentle  breeze  that  softly  stirs  the  meadows.  There 
are  blind  instincts  and  terrible  impulses  in  human 
nature  that  sometimes  burst  forth  and  sweep  away 
all  barriers.  Such  instincts  and  impulses  are  now 
slumbering  in  the  mulatto  ;  and  if  justice  be  not  done 
his  race,  they  may  not  slumber  forever.  You  cannot 
evermore  throw  electricity  into  a  glass  bottle  ;  it  will 
finally  burst  forth   and   fill   the   air  with  destruction  ; 


TJie  Sinn  of  the   Whole.  285 

and  so  the  little  cloud,  at  first  no  bigger  than  a  man's 
hand,  will  gather  at  last,  and  come  down  in  the  light- 
ning. As  we  look  at  the  sky,  do  we  not  see  that 
cloud  a-gathering  ?  for  is  not  the  South  given  over 
to  the  folly  of  Pharaoh  ?  God  grant  that  it  may  not 
burst ;  but  if  it  does  burst,  it  will  be  the  mulatto  who 
will  guide  the  storm  and  ride  upon  the  whirlwind. 

Hastily  and  imperfectly  I  have  now  given  you 
what  seem  to  me  the  prominent  characteristics  of 
the  leading  classes  of  Southern  society.  I  have 
shown  you  four  millions  of  blacks  and  six  mil- 
lions of  whites,,  trodden  on,  impoverished,  and  kept 
in  a  greater  or  less  degree  of  mental  and  moral  dark- 
ness by  a  mere  handful  of  men  who  have  usurped 
the  name  of  "  chivalry,"  and,  with  a  rod  of  iron,  ruled 
the  South  for  two  centuries.  These  men  are  actuated 
by  the  very  spirit  whicn  the  God-man  spent  his  life 
in  combating,  —  the  spirit  which  says  to  the  rest  of 
the  world,  "  Give  place,  I  am  holier  than  thou " ; 
"  the  clay  of  which  I  am  formed  is  of  finer  mould 
than  the  coarse  earth  of  w^hich  you  are  fashioned." 

This  spirit  is  the  prolific  parent  of  almost  all  the 
woes  that  afflict  humanit)'.  It  has  robbed  the  poor 
man  of  his  rights,  kept  him  in  ignorance  and  degra- 
dation, and  made  him  a  mere  hewer  of  wood   and 


286  TJie  Young  Virginian. 

drawer  of  water  to  those  who  do  nothing,  produce 
nothing,  and  only  cumber  the  ground.  It  is  the  born 
enemy  of  liberty,  equality,  and  all  true  progress ;  and 
this  nation  will  not  attain  to  its  destiny  until  it  is 
weeded  out  of  it  forever.  It  has  a  sickly  existence  at 
the  North,  but  it  grows  rank  and  wild  at  the  South, 
among  the  "chivalry."  To  uproot  it  we  must  dis- 
franchise them,  and  so  strip  them  forever  of  the  power 
they  have  so  wickedly  abused.  Then,  and  not  until 
then,  will  they  learn,  that  a  man  is  a  man,  whatever 
his  race  or  his  color,  and  that  labor  is  the  badge  of 
true  nobihty,  the  highest  glory  of  manhood. 


THE   END. 


^ 


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